


when all else fails (i'll be here)

by whisperdlullaby



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>it was calming, refreshing, like taking your first breath after years of comatose. i felt okay. better than okay. for the first time in my life, i felt what normal must feel like. for the first time, that empty space, somewhere lodged between my chest and my ribcage, was filled.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	when all else fails (i'll be here)

**Author's Note:**

> this involves very serious drug use and addiction (and is very non-au), if you're sensitive to this matter please do not read. i think it's also important to point out that i do not believe or wish this to ever happen. it's merely a plot made up in my mind. and while i did my fair share of research, i have still never done these drugs or experienced the high, so i'm aware my accuracy might not be 100% on, but please bare with me.
> 
> originally posted on my lj with the same user in 2010

Jon leaves. 

He says, “I’m sorry, Ryan, but I just can’t do this anymore.” 

He says, “I don’t know who I am.” 

I nod, tell him I understand. Everyone always leaves. 

At security, Jon places both hands on my shoulders, looks me in the eye, hold strong and relentless. I still feel woozy, a bit on edge, and it’s hard for me to focus on the brown ones staring back at me. They used to be warm, soft and comforting, and now they only serve as a reminder from a time before, faded by the distance. 

He says, “Be careful, okay man?” 

He says, “I worry about you sometimes.” 

I bite the tip of my tongue until I taste metal. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, off-hand, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. I jiggle my foot, and tap a familiar melody against my thigh. The airport lights are bright, rays of pain sparking up beneath my eyelids. “I will, man. You take care.” 

He gives me another long stare, studying, as if uncovering a thin layer. I don’t know how many layers I have left, but I’m sure it can’t be many. 

Tightening the worn, beige strap on his shoulder, he turns to look at the security gates. His plane is waiting on the other side of those walls, waiting to bring him back home, to Chicago, away from me. “Alright. Well, I guess I better get going now.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, bud.” His hand finds my shoulder once again, but this time, he pulls me in for a hug. Reluctantly, I return the gesture, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face into his solid shoulder. It feels familiar, but off, like it’s been bumped off the surface and never put back where it’s meant to. There’s a faint scent to him, like maybe once I would’ve smelt rich coffee and warm spices, but now all I smell is disappointment. Defeat. “We had some good times, didn’t we?” 

“Yeah,” I agree, voice muffled into his sweater, “we did.” 

He pulls away, giving me one last, solid pat on the back. “See ya around, kid.” 

Raising my hand mid-air, I give a small flick of my paper wrist. “Bye, Jon.” 

I wait until he’s made it through the maze of grey security tape. He doesn’t look back, and neither do I as my feet pick up and lead me to what I know. My hands start to shake, there’s a dull buzzing in my ears; I know this feeling too well. I can never get there fast enough, tripping over my own feet, the plastic burning through the denim. 

By the time I reach the bathroom, I can feel it begin to creep up, preparing for attack; the hold, the strangle, pulling me under, down to a place I never want to be. It’s dark, and it’s ugly, but it’s the life that I’ve come to know, love, and simultaneously hate. 

I ignore the man washing his hands at the sink, and push into an empty stall. If I think back hard enough, I can vaguely recall a time where I could go hours, days even, before I was thrown into this state of delirium; this craving so deep that it burns back holes deep beneath my skin. The thought almost seems foreign to me as I dump a white, crystal-like rock out onto the toilet lid; another life even. 

Jon’s gone. Of course he is. 

Everyone always leaves. 

I pull my wallet from my pocket, retrieving a long since expired credit card and dollar bill, already curling up at the ends from previous use. The man’s still in the washroom; I can hear the low trickle of the tap running and the rough cackle as he clears his throat. I don’t care, and it’s a strange concept to me that I might have once. When the thought of snorting a drug off a public toilet sounded preposterous, something I would only witness on television. But now, here I am, the leading role. The fucking star. 

The first line doesn’t do much; it’s not the same anymore. It no longer hits me in the way it once did. It takes more and lasts less, only costing me money that is rapidly disappearing from the mangled folds in my wallet. I take two more, and sit back on my haunches. Head tilted towards the ceiling, I squeeze my eyes shut and let the euphoria flow through me in mild waves. Somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear Spencer and Brendon saying, If only. 

It’s a nice feeling. The despair, the loss, that gaping hole in my chest, quickly beginning to fade, to fill and be replaced with something that I can only imagine heaven might feel like. At least, a place better than this; white and gauntly, fading into the bathroom tiles on the airport floor, white powder staining my hands and face. 

Brendon and Spencer would say, if only we would’ve stopped you before it was too late. 

But what they didn’t understand was that the moment my lips first touched the cold rim of the glass, the strong scent of alcohol burning my nostrils, it was already too late. 

 

 **summer 2006**

“You’re so fucking cruel,” Brendon growled, voice muffled against my neck, skin hot on touch. Tightening his grip on my hips, he pushed me until my back hit the wall of the dressing room. “Such a tease.” 

I laughed, breathless. Tipping my head back against the painted brick, I pushed my fingers through his hair. “You love it,” I replied, cheeky. 

“Maybe.” Brendon smirked against my skin, lips finding their way back to mine. Popping open the top button of my pants, he tucked his hands into the waistband of my underwear. I gasped, head slamming against the wall as his fingers wrapped around me. 

I pushed my hands up the front of his shirt, bottom three buttons undone, sliding my fingers along velvety skin. His fingers held around me, full and coveting. We had been doing this for close to a month, after years of trying to ignore it, and already, I found his skin to be my new addiction. His skin, his mouth, his wrists, his ass; he was my drug, and I could never seem to get enough. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he murmured into my mouth, the fingers not tucked inside my jeans, splaying across my neck. He ran a thumb along my skin as I blushed. “And you’re all mine,” he added, huskily, nipping at my bottom lip. 

I smiled, something in my chest constricting and then expanding. Expanding, until I was sure it couldn’t hold. 

“You’re perfect,” he said, whisper flooding my mouth. 

And in that moment, pressed between the wall and Brendon, I felt that I could’ve been. 

* 

And then, my dad died. 

My father died, and all these emotions, these thoughts and beliefs that I had kept hidden, tucked deep inside veiled crevices and nooks, came flying out from inside and hurdled into me at top speed. 

Growing up, all I had ever heard from my dad, my school, church, was that everything I had ever felt was wrong. Wanting to make a career as a guitarist in a rockband? Not going to happen. Thos jeans? Too tight, change. The way I felt about that boy two rows up at Sunday morning mass? Don’t even start on that one. 

That party, that movie, that song. All wrong. 

It had taken two years of long looks, touches and words laced with longing before I had finally given into Brendon that late night in June. It had been incredible and electrifying and everything in between; everything I had been itching for since I was seventeen, but could never quite reach. For once, I was able to ignore that voice inside my head, my father’s slurred voice calling me a faggot, a failure. To erase the image of my fourteen year-old self getting thrown against the floor in a heap after he had caught me in my bedroom with a boy from school. 

Maybe his death should’ve set me free - unlocked me from his grip that had been reigning over me like a dark cloud for so many years. But, of course, it did nothing like that. I should’ve known; after all, nothing ever turned out the way I wanted it to. Why did I expect any different this time? 

I should’ve known that night, with the salty water and Brendon against my skin, that it was all too good, all too easy, for it not to come crashing down. 

* 

At the funeral, people cried. They wished me their condolences, telling me their stories of what a brave, wonderful man my father was. All the while, I could only think of the empty whiskey bottles scattered around our house, the long, eerie halls of the hospital, or the way his sour breath smelt when he knocked me against the wall for coming home five minutes past curfew. 

All these neighbours, his co-workers, former Navy Marines, only saw the cover; what they chose to. Sometimes, I wondered what they would’ve thought had they only known what went on behind closed doors; once the sun went down, and the curtains were drawn. If only they could see the scars that covered my insides like bad decorations. 

Only Spencer and Brendon really knew of the truth, only ones that ever would. And as I sat stony-eyed in the front row, Brendon on one side with his hand covering my own, he had to have known then. 

* 

Keltie was blonde and gorgeous, and a little bit quirky. When she came up to introduce herself at rehearsal, bubbly and energetic, batting her doe-eyes that looked all too familiar, the same thought from when I was a teenager trickled through my mind. “He’d approve of her….” it said. 

It was stupid. It didn’t make sense when I was seventeen, and it certainly didn’t make sense now; that I’d try so hard and so long to get the approval from a man who spent most of my life, drunk in front of the television, spewing verses from the Bible. 

But, it’s what I did. What I always did. In high school I dated girl after girl, in hopes that if I kissed her, slept with her, that maybe one day I’d become what everyone always talked about, but I could never quite see for myself: normal. 

I figured that if I played pretend for long enough, maybe, eventually, it would become reality. Like the little girl who played dress-up, hoping one day she’d become a princess. 

It never did, but I never stopped trying, either. 

Brendon watched as I shook her hand, that all too familiar smile tugging on my lips. And if he didn’t know before, he certainly did then. 

 

**spring 2011**

I arrive home to an empty house, and a message waiting for me on my answering machine. I don’t think twice as I press play, expecting to hear Alex’s voice flood in through the small speaker. But, as the message rolls back and starts, the voice hits me like hot knives, hot and penetrating into the swollen flesh. 

“Hey,” it starts, an uncomfortable edge hidden in his usual cheer. “Haven’t talked to you in awhile, so I thought I’d call to see what’s up. Your cell said it’s been disconnected, I guess you still have that habit of leaving your phone in places.” That, or not bothering to pay my phone bill. From the small box, Brendon laughs, so forced that it makes me cringe. “So… yeah, anyway. I just wanted to see how you were doing, what was up. I was thinking that maybe we could get together sometime, catch up - ” 

I press a button, and Brendon’s voice is instantly cut short, replaced with dull, more robotic one, informing me that the message has been deleted. Forever. 

It’s been close to two years since the band split, and I don’t understand why he’s still trying. Doesn’t he get it? Hasn’t he given up? Everyone else certainly has; even Spencer. It’s bad enough that I can’t seem to turn on the radio or the television without hearing his voice or seeing his goddamn face. 

Picking up the phone, I dial the only person that comes to mind. Alex picks up on the third ring, voice rough and cracking, as if drug through hell and back. Whatever it was that he did, I doubt it’s far off. “You woke me up, ass-wipe.” 

When I met Alex back during The Honda Civic Tour, my drug habits were hardly anything to bat an eyelash over. I drank and smoked as much weed as any other twenty-two year-old would, and indulged in a line or two whenever it was offered. Spencer didn’t even mind that much, at least not enough to get on my case about it. But then came Alex, with his dishevelled, brown hair and distinguishing looks, his lifestyle to his I-don’t-give-a-fuck, I’m-young-and-rich attitude, and I was instantly hooked. I looked at Alex and felt things I never had before; it was new and exciting and exhilarating, like the first time I had ever tried cocaine. 

I thought it was love, but now I know it was nothing more than infatuation. Just another part of the never-ending obsession to rid of who I was, and become something better, something cooler. Something normal. At least, as close that I could ever come to it. 

“Can you come over? Please? And bring some shit too. I tossed it out the window last night,” I mumble the last part, cheeks heating in shame, bracing myself for Alex’s inevitable jeers. 

There’s a pause on the other line, and Alex lets out a choked laugh. I pace over to the door, looking out over the long wooden stretch of my balcony, the canyon of trees and flowers that sit below. “Again?” he asks. “Why now?” 

“How about I tell you when I get here,” I suggest, tracing my finger along the cool glass. It’s raining outside now, and the tiny raindrops slide down the other side, racing towards the bottom, a thin trail remaining behind them; a reminder of their existence. 

It was nothing. Just another one of my random fits of paranoia in which I swore the cops were following me. I had even heard sirens, saw the lights. In panic, I threw my stash out my car window and over the highway barrier, a hundred foot drop into a forested canyon, only to realize it was only in my head. This wasn’t the first time. There’s been many instances over the past year where I’ve flushed hundreds of dollars worth of drugs down the toilet, or thrown it over my balcony. 

Alex pauses once more, letting out a long, over-dramatized yawn. “Fine. Fine. Give me a half an hour,” he says, and promptly hangs up. 

I wait for him on the couch, knees pulled tight to my chest like a child. I keep my lights off, and stare ahead at the black television screen. The early morning sun, trapped behind the dark clouds, trickles in quietly through the glass. My house is dark and lonely, mostly empty except for a few of Jon’s trinkets that he left behind. It’s no wonder he left. 

Alex lets himself in, large sunglasses perched on his nose. He has coffee in one hand, and his hair looks as if it hasn’t been washed, never mind brushed, in over a week. I doubt it has. I can’t remember the last time I’ve looked in a mirror myself. My appearance ceased to be one of my priorities a long time ago - in fact, I can’t remember the last time something mattered to me that didn’t involve my next fix, and maybe, sometimes, Alex too. 

My buzz is starting to wear thin, and the crash is harsh, the hole inside me growing larger, and so much deeper. All these things I don’t want to think about, don’t want to remember, come charging back out, wrapping their angry fists around my neck. 

“Do you have it?” I ask before he has a chance to greet me, desperation leaking from my voice, thick as the rain outside my walls. 

Alex chuckles, and sits down next to me, thigh rubbing against mine. Faintly, I remember a time when that was enough to cause sparks shooting up my spine, running through my veins. We’re not in a relationship, not really, but it’s the closest thing I have. “Hey to you too.” 

I shoot him a look, an I’m-not-in-the-mood. 

He laughs, mockingly, but digs into his pocket and pulls out a full bag, still packed tight with white rocks. I watch in hunger as he lays it out on the coffee table, and reaches for a razorblade sitting in the ceramic bowl that Keltie had once made for me, sometime in a distant life ago. He asks what happened, and I half-heartedly tell him the story of tossing my stash out the window. 

He shakes his head, humorous. “As always.” 

I could argue with him, tell him it doesn’t always happen, but I know it’s no use. I watch as he cuts the crystals up instead, mouth watering. 

I’m not feeling much better, that place locked inside my brain beginning to pry itself out, become more vivid now. I can feel my chest beginning to constrict, press painfully into my ribcage, but with Alex here and the comfort of knowing the cure is coming soon, I can manage, at least. 

“Here, take this before you go bat-shit on me again,” Alex orders, motioning towards the perfectly cut line. 

I roll my eyes, but greedily oblige, taking the plastic tube from Alex’s hand. I lean over his lap to get closer, skin buzzing with anticipation. 

It’s not that I go crazy all the time, like throw my stash away in a fit of paranoia, go through extreme rages where I wreck everything within reach, or have anxiety attacks so bad that I feel that I might die when I don’t get my fix in time. But Alex sure likes making it seem so, reminding me every chance that’s handed to him. It’s not like he doesn’t have stories of his own, like that one time he barred all his windows, convinced little people were stalking him. 

In the end, no matter how many times we turn it inside out, contrive it or tuck it in a corner, we know we’re nothing more than victims of ourselves. 

The lines help, but like at the airport, they don’t do much, even less. That desperate feeling is faded, chalked down to a dull throbbing, but it’s not what I’m looking for. It’s not that state of bliss, those few minutes in my life where I can sit back and feel okay for once. 

I do line after line until there’s nothing left. Alex, on the other hand, is sprawled out next to me, a dopey smile on his face, boneless as if a part of the couch. 

Curling my knees into my chest, I press the pads of my heels into my eyes, and try to calm the anxiety heating in my veins. The high has been a slow but steady downfall, never able to compare to that first time it struck my veins. I noticed all along, but it never stopped me from trying, regardless. “I can’t feel it,” I murmur into my knees, quiet and vulnerable, small as a sick child. “Why can’t I feel it? I just want to - I need to feel it, Alex.” 

He opens an eye to see me shaking, rocking back and forth on the couch. I’m so small now, my body barely takes up a square cushion. “What are you - Shit, Ryan. Calm down.” 

I shake my head, pressing my lips together and swallowing. Thoughts are racing through my head, blood bouncing off my capillaries. Alex’s hand is on my waist, my shoulder, my face. I don’t understand how this could’ve happened. I don’t know who this person is anymore, this person I’ve become. All along it’s like I’ve been floating somewhere above, looking down at myself, the people around me, but never really seeing. I didn’t want to see. 

Alex’s beard rubs against my skin, and he kisses me, as if hoping it will make me stop thinking. And it does, for a bit. He tastes bitter, like myself. I can’t remember the last time I tasted something that wasn’t; something that didn’t leave a strong sense of bile sitting at the back of my throat. 

Brendon always tasted sweet, like Redbull and liquorice. 

When my hand slides up Alex’s shirt, I can feel ribs, count every one. His chest feels concave, and paper-thin against my fingers. I know mine aren’t far off. 

I let him fuck me over the couch, my face pushed into the cushion as he grunts loudly from above. I come all over the fabric, adding to prior stains that are forever marked. 

It’s only after we’ve finished that I notice my nose has started to bleed, the dark red mixing with the painting of other colours, stained into the paisley fabric. It happens so often that it doesn’t even faze me anymore. 

Alex kisses my jaw, and I watch as a single ruby drop lands on my thigh, skin translucent and pulled over the bone. 

 

**winter 2007**

At the strike of the new year, Dave, our manager, pushed a drink into my hands. “It’s New Years!” he said, grinning wildly, tie loose around his neck. “Let loose!” 

Keltie stood next to me, smelling of strong perfume and hairspray. I could still taste her Cappucino lip gloss, sticky and stained onto my mouth. 

Across the room, Brendon caught my eye and held it. The entire time I was kissing Keltie, the room around us erupting in cheers and applause, the only thing I could think about was how badly I wanted it to be him. I always wanted it to be him, but it was always her, too soft and too delicate underneath me. 

In one, simple movement he raised his own glass, eyes telling a toast that only I could decipher. I did the same with my own, and with a last breath of air, I pressed the cool glass to my lips. 

One drink, I thought. It’s nothing. 

The alcohol stung all the way down my throat and oesophagus as I spluttered. Keltie and Dave laughed next to me. Spencer and Jon were nowhere in sight. Brendon smiled, the line of his throat pale and inviting in the dim light. 

I hated the taste, strong but bitter, lingering on the back of my tongue for hours afterward. I didn’t know it then - or, maybe, I did - but in that one moment, that one drink, I was already falling so hard. 

* 

We made it ten, successful days trapped inside the cabin together before Brendon had me pinned to his bedroom wall, teeth nipping at my bottom lip and nimble fingers scraping my belly. I mewled into his mouth, kissing him back just as desperately, our mouth’s faintly tasting of orange juice and vodka. It had been a long time since August, and I wanted every inch of him beneath me, warm and pliant and beautiful, ready to be shaped. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” Brendon cursed, words broken between heated kisses, “missed you - so much.” 

I nodded fervently, pulling his t-shirt over his chest and tossing it onto the ground. “Want - ” I panted, “need to fuck you.” 

Moaning, he backed towards the bed, hands starting on his belt as I pulled my own shirt over my head. The music from Guitar Hero was blasting from downstairs, where Jon and Spencer sat, drunk and high and probably not the least bit oblivious to what was going on just above. 

Spencer’s glazed eyes had watched us as we left, all knowing and condemning. I expected a lecture from him bright and early the following morning, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was Brendon, and his captivating skin beneath my fingers. 

We settled with undressing ourselves, the fastest route before we met on the bed, Brendon already sprawled out and breathless against the dark sheets. I bent down to meet his lips, wet and needy, wondering how I had lasted nearly a year without being able to do this. 

“Ry. Ryan,” he pleaded, desperately, pupils blown and blunt nails digging into my shoulder blades, “come on. Please. The stuff is in the nightstand.” 

I nodded, crawling on my knees across the bed to dig inside the top drawer, retrieving a condom from the full box and a tube of lube. Clearly, he had been expecting this, but then again, so had I. 

Crawling back over, I hooked Brendon’s leg onto my hip, and squirted the cool liquid into the palm of my hand, rubbing it into my fingers. “How long as it been?” I asked, hoarsely, circling a finger around his entrance. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for, or if I really wanted to know, scared I might hate the answer, but I searched his eyes, anyway, waiting. 

“Awhile,” he replied, curled toes brushing against the cleft of my ass. 

I nodded, kissing him once more pushing a single digit in through the tight ring of muscle. He let out a muted, strangled noise, and I kissed it away, the small sound disappearing into the depths of my mouth. 

By the time I pushed in two, Brendon was already rocking against my fingers, head tilted back. “Missed your fingers,” he said, breathless, through parted lips, like I hadn’t already guessed myself. He had always loved my fingers almost as much as he loved my cock, and never failed on telling me so. Over these past few months he hardly tried to hide the way his eyes lingered on them - while I strummed my guitar, chewed on my nails when writing, his eyes dripping with want. I had been cruel enough to wrap them around his wrist one day in passing, pressing the tip of them into his pulse point. He had looked at me, eyes round and startled, as if trying to decide whether it really was my doing or all in his head. He lasted a moment before he slipped away from me, muttering a feeble excuse, and disappeared into the washroom, the clear outline of his erection through his jeans. 

When I finally pushed inside, way too many months over-due, we gasped into each other’s mouths, Brendon’s body falling tense underneath mine. 

“Does it hurt?” I asked, cautiously, forcing my hips still. 

He shook his head, eyes blinking open. “No.” He smiled, and slowly began to relax against me. Turning his head, his lips brushed against the wrist anchoring myself above him. “I just forgot how good you feel.” 

Groaning into his neck, I jerked my hips, pushing in as far as I could go. He didn’t make a sound, only continued to smile, blissful. His eyes slipped shut, the dark curtain of eyelashes falling over his lightly freckled skin. I loved those freckles, the ones only noticeable when close, or after too many hours in the sun. I spent one morning outlining each with the sharp tip of my tongue, him smiling and laughing underneath me, whole and breathless. 

“Fuck,” Brendon cursed after a steady pace between us had been set. He slid a leg up, tucking it underneath my armpit. “This reminds me of Myrtle Beach.” He laughs, eyes opening to look at me. I had already been watching him this entire time. “Except, remarkably less painful.” He doesn’t ask me if I remember, doesn’t need to, because it’s something that’s already been burned into the pages of my memory. Every detail, every breath. 

I could remember the feeling of the sand against our bare feet, the warm waves against our skin. Even when I thought about it then, knowing I was the first to mark his skin or press into places that no one had before, it left me with a heavy thrumming in my chest and a heat that spread underneath my skin like a rash. I was the first, and while the chances were slim, I hoped I was the only. The thought of someone else inside of him, running their mouths over his untarnished skin filled me with an unfathomable wash of nausea and disgust. I didn’t want to know, so I never asked. 

I let my forehead fall against his, mouth’s close and sharing breath. 

After we came, only seconds apart, Brendon ran his hands over my body, any inch of skin he could reach, feverously, as if needing to burn it into his memory and carry it with him. I wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t leave him again, not this time, but I didn’t know the words. I kissed him instead, fingers against his jaw, feeling the air leave his chest. 

It wasn’t until later, Brendon asleep with his back to my chest, that Keltie had crossed my mind. 

* 

The next morning, Spencer caught me in the kitchen, coffee machine whirring on the counter in front of me. I had woken up to Brendon, still sound asleep and tangled in the sheets, pillow creases streaking his cheek. He was turned onto his back, breathing heavily into the early morning breeze trickling in through the open window. It smelt of pine and second chances. I always knew I loved him, but there was something in that moment that made me more certain that I had ever been before. 

I slipped out of bed without causing him to stir, deciding to wake him with coffee instead. I figured we could spend the day in bed, making up for months of lost time; making out and making love. 

Naturally, Spencer did not agree. “What are you doing, Ryan? I thought you stopped this.” 

He said, “You have a girlfriend.” 

He said, “You’re both going to end up hurt again.” 

I poured two cups of coffee, and said noting. 

“Ryan,” he sighed, “don’t let it mess up the band.” 

It was the same lecture he given me the last time. It hadn’t worked then, and he knew just as well as I did that it wouldn’t work now. I could admire him for trying, though. 

Taking both mugs into my hand, still black, I looked at him. “I won’t.” 

I loved him. I loved Brendon, and for the first time in my life, the thought didn’t scare me. I wondered if he could that as clearly as I felt it. 

Turning back towards the staircase, I said in an afterthought, smiling wickedly, “You and Jon might want to spend the day outside. Just a suggestion.” I didn’t stick around to see his expression. 

Brendon was up when I returned, on his side and staring out the window, out at the mountains painting the horizon. When he turned to see me, he smiled, sinking back into the pillow. “I was scared you left.” 

“I couldn’t have gone far,” I pointed out as he scooted over to make room for me on the edge of the bed. I could hardly blame him for thinking it, but it hurt nonetheless. 

He smiled again, shrugged, and graciously took the mug of hot coffee from my hand, white threads of steam blowing into the air. I bent down to kiss him, murmuring a ‘good morning’ into his moist lips. 

As if he could taste it on my mouth, the tip of my tongue, he pulled back and ducked his face into my neck, breathing deep. “Love you,” he whispered into my skin, so faint it was nearly silent. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it was the first time he meant it in that way. 

I couldn’t say it, didn’t know how, but when I pulled his lips back to mine, I took the words frozen inside my throat, and pushed them into his mouth, silent as a promise. He smiled at me, the hand not grasping his mug sliding around mine, and I knew he had caught it. 

* 

Maybe it was the solitary, the boredom, or the relief of ending a long tour, the excitement of staring a new album, but none of us thought twice as an abundance of alcohol and weed moved into the cabin along with us. 

A week in, Jon showed up after a trip to the grocery store with ‘shrooms. 

The next week, Spencer showed up with acid. 

It wasn’t until the third week, when I was rummaging through the top drawer of Brendon’s bedside table - I had spent so much time in his room, that I was sure it could’ve been considered my own, as well - for a condom, when my fingers grazed across the baggy. I didn’t know why he had it, why it wasn’t downstairs stashed along with the rest of it, but I flashed it across his face, held up like a question mark. He blinked back at me, hair wild and naked across the covers, but I hardly noticed. My eyes remained on the bag, half full of crushed, white powder, curiosity brimming. 

I didn’t mind ‘shrooms, or even the acid, but it didn’t leave anything resounding, anything that made me want to go out and try it again. It only made me feel dizzy and confused in a way that I’d never been before. 

“It’s not mine,” is what Brendon said. 

I shot him a look, dubious. 

He sighed, and sat up on his elbows, cock still hard and curving along his flat stomach. “I found it downstairs. I took it because - ” He stopped short, and shook his head, as if not sure why he had himself. “I was drunk. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I chickened out.” 

I stared at it, still dangling between my fingers, wondering why Jon or Spencer had it. Mushrooms and acid were one thing, but coke? There was a possibility that Brendon was lying to me, that it was his all along, but I couldn’t see that either. 

“I want to do it.” I licked my lips, and dropped the small bag into the palm of my hand, eyeing it. 

“What?” Brendon tilted his head to meet my gaze, eyes widened and an incredulous expression pulled tight across his features, not quite sure he heard me right. I wasn’t even sure I had heard myself right. “What are you even talking about, Ryan? This is coke we’re talking about here.” 

“Well, you were going to do it,” I pointed out, stubborn. I could feel the powder burning through the plastic, into my skin. 

“Yeah, because I was drunk and stupid.” 

I looked away, down to the bag lying still in my open palm. “It’s one time,” I said, cogently. Closing my palm, trapping it between my fingers, I rolled onto my stomach next to him. I ran a persuading hand across his warm belly, fingers brushing into coarse hair. “Aren’t you curious?” I asked, feathering a row of kisses along his neck. 

“That shit’s fucked, Ryan,” he said, but I could hear the waver in his voice. 

“It’s one time, that’s it. We won’t do it again,” I pressed. “I just want to see.” 

Brendon shook his head, an uneasy edge to it, but I could see the wheels turning in his head as the crack I was creating slowly began to widen. I waited for a moment, and after no reply, I picked myself up and sat cross-legged in the middle of the comforter, naked skin a sharp contrast against the deep burgundy. “Well,” I said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m doing it.” 

“Ry, come on, are you serious?” he asked, voice lowered, eyes flicking across mine. “This is fucking coke we’re talking about here. It fucks with people’s lives.” 

I didn’t care. In my brain, at that moment, I was invincible. I had spent my entire life convinced alcohol was going to ruin me; one sip and I’d be done, just like my father, an abusive drunk who pushed away everyone who ever loved him. But now, I knew that wasn’t the case. I drank, and I was fine. I could stop myself, and I didn’t hurt anyone. It was just fun, and it made me feel better. Why would drugs be any different? 

“I’m doing it once,” I insisted, reaching over to grab a notebook of mine on the bedside table, setting it down in front of me. “It’s not going to fuck with my life.” Before he had the chance to protest, I opened the baggy and began to pour the white crystals onto the flattened, black surface. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I had been around people doing it a few times before, but never stuck around long enough to see the mechanics of it. “I need a credit card or something.” 

Brendon was sitting all the way up now, elbows brushing against mine. I could feel his warm breath trickle down my neck and shoulder as he stared at me, torn. I turned to meet his gaze, chin brushing against my shoulder blade. “Please,” I murmured, his mouth close to mine. “Just this one time. That’s all. I promise.” 

Groaning, Brendon’s forehead knocked against mine. I kept my eyes open, and stared at his eyelids. I knew I had won. I had from the beginning. I always did when it came to him. “Shit. Spencer’s going to fucking kill me,” he said, but got off the bed anyway. 

I ignored him, fingers digging into my thigh. That’s how it always was with them. I was never my own person, I was always this child, a six year-old that you always had to have a watchful kept on, in case I wandered off in the supermarket and never came back. 

I watched as Brendon bent down to retrieve his jeans, discarded in our fit of passion that had been since forgotten and put on hold. I was too absorbed in the mysterious, but inviting powder, laid out in front of me to even fully appreciate the view of Brendon’s ass as he did so, naked and full and perfect. 

When he returned, he had an old American Outfitters gift card in one hand and a bill in the other. The expression on his face was somewhere between horror, guilt and shock, torn between whether he should stop this while he still had the chance. Well, what he thought was a chance, anyway. 

Brendon watched next to me as I cut up the coke, pushing it into lines like I had seen done before. Once I was done, Brendon looked over me worriedly, teeth gnawing into his bottom lip. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

I nodded. I was positive. 

Shimmying around, careful not to cause the bed to shake and the lines to break, I knelt over the book, elbow holding myself up. Brendon laughed, hand smoothing along my back, and lips mouthing at my shoulder. “This position is very inviting,” he growled, husky. 

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. My heart was racing, blood pumping with adrenaline. Tightening the rolled bill in between my fingers, I bent down the rest of the way, paper to powder. Brendon kept his hand on my back as I inhaled, the faintest sound escaping the back of his throat. 

When I pulled back, I could taste it. Bitter and strong and nasty. I sat up on my haunches, and looked at Brendon, attempting to snort back the excess and swallow the taste. Brendon’s expression was only worried now, terrified even, like he already knew he’d be regretting this decision for the rest of his life. 

It hit quick. Quicker than I had expected. It was a blast all at once, but it wasn’t numbing like alcohol, and when I looked out the window, the trees hadn’t turned into snakes like they had when I was on acid. It was calming, refreshing, like taking your first breath after years of comatose. I felt okay. Better than okay. For the first time in my life, I felt what normal must feel like. For the first time, that empty space, somewhere lodged between my chest and my ribcage, was filled. 

I managed to move out of the way, flopping into the side of the mattress where Brendon was laying. The sheets suddenly felt like silk to me, the mattress like feathers. I felt like I could do anything - write the entire album, hike up the mountain towering above us, the one that once felt so big. 

Through the haze, I watched as Brendon took his lines, the small notches of his spin that poked through milky skin. For once, I felt the way he must have seen me; beautiful, complete. 

Knocking the notebook off the bed once he was finished, Brendon collapsed onto his back next to me. He stared up at the ceiling with me, waiting for it to kick in. “How do you feel?” 

“Perfect.” I smiled, and quietly began to laugh. 

Brendon rolled onto his side, hooking himself underneath my chin, his hand reaching out to curl along my hip. I could’ve lied like that forever, staring up at the ceiling, letting this new, blissful feeling run through me. But Brendon was kissing my neck, hand trailing lower, and that was okay with me too. 

Whether or not I wanted to admit it at the time, sex with Brendon was always the best I ever had. The feeling of him against me, around me, in me; but this was something entirely different. So much more intense, extraordinary, than even our best. It felt as if there was a constant shock of electricity that shot up and down my body, into the air, into Brendon. When I finally did come, it was as if it would never end, my vision turning white and my brain black. 

Brendon was drenched in sweat, and even myself, with skin that rarely sheds a drop in even the muggiest of temperatures, had a thin layer of it. “Holy fuck.” 

I smiled, kissed his shoulder, cock now limp and still inside him. 

The comedown, on the other hand, was awful. Although, it was Brendon who spent twenty minute son his knees in front of the toilet, throwing up the remaining contents of his stomach. I didn’t feel sick to my stomach, but I felt horrible, shitty, like I hated my skin even more than I had before. I couldn’t comprehend how one moment I was everything, and nothing the next. 

“I’m never doing that shit again,” Brendon vowed, moaning as he sprawled out against the white porcelain. I rubbed a comforting hand along his back, calloused fingers against smooth skin, and thought the exact opposite. I was thinking about how to get it, and how soon. “That high was too fucking short, and that drug is too fucking dangerous, and the comedown is too fucking shitty.” 

I mumbled a half-hearted agreement. 

“I’ll stick to my weed and alcohol, thanks.” 

“Yeah,” I mumbled. 

Pulling himself from the toilet, Brendon shifted to face me, dropping his head against my chest. “You promise you won’t do it again either?” he murmured, lips ghosting over my neck. 

I hesitated, then nodded, carefully wrapping an arm around Brendon’s waist and pulled him close. “Yeah,” I said, kissing his hair, “I promise.” 

 

**summer 2011**

Pete calls me on a rainy, June afternoon. It’s been a year since we’ve last talked, at least. If I hadn’t have been anxiously waiting for my dealer and thought twice about checking the ID, I doubt I would’ve picked up. 

Over these past few years, the friends in my life have went from many, to few, to barely existent. Now that Jon has left, all I really have is Alex. Sure, there are the people I associate with at parties, people I buy drugs from, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that friends and the people you share drugs with do not fall into the same category. Even with Alex, the closest thing I have now, I have my doubts. It’s an unspoken understanding between us that without the drugs holding us together like glue, we’d fall apart. We’ve gone days without speaking or seeing one another, weeks even, and hardly noticed until one of us had shown up on each other’s door step, exhausted and strung-out in day old clothes. 

The worst thing is that this is what my definition of normal has come down to. It’s a strange concept to me to think that it would’ve ever been different; better. 

Pete’s voice is too cheerful on the other line, all too high, and I have to hold the phone away to slow the ache that sparks beneath my eyelids. I feel awful. I’d nearly done a whole eight ball to myself this morning, and it didn’t do much but cause a nosebleed and even worse sense of disparity. Cocaine was the one thing I had, the one thing I was sure would never leave me until I left it first, but even that’s slowly slipping from between the cracks of my fingers. 

“How are you doing? It’s been so long. Too long.” Even though Pete isn’t far, only a trip down Highway 1, I feel as if the distance between us is too far to mark on a map. “An old Fever song came on my iPod today. I couldn’t help but think of you.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.” 

There’s a sharp pain shooting into my brain, probably from the bottle of Johnnie Walker I had started late last night and drank until morning. Somewhere in there, my thoughts have sunk to the bottom. “Long time,” I repeat, my tongue feeling thick inside my mouth. I wonder if it’s too late to hang up now, whether it’ll even matter if I do. 

I want to ask about Spencer, about Brendon. The words are clawing their way up my throat, but in the end, I manage to swallow them back down again. They leave gashes, thick as black wire. Spencer and Brendon are in different lives now, they’re different people with thriving music careers. And if the videos I’ve searched late at night, vision tainted and blurred, are anything to go by, they’re happy. Really happy. More than they had ever been with me. 

Maybe my life hadn’t turned out for the best when I walked out that door and out of their lives, but theirs had, and that’s really all I had hoped for. What they didn’t understand, was that I loved them more than some drug, and that was the problem. They didn’t understand, but I didn’t want them to. I wanted them to hate me, to cut me from their lives like you would a wilting plant. It was something they should’ve done long before, but were frozen by the guilt that never belonged with them in the first place. 

“I heard Jon’s back in Chicago. Are you doing okay?” 

In other words, he wants to know if it’s just me now. Me, my coke and my misery. They probably have bets on me; how long it’ll take for me to land in jail, rehab. Dead. I bet they sit around, over expensive food and wine, and say, “Poor Ryan. He never stood a chance.” 

“Good,” I repeat, and wish that even a fraction of that was true. I pick at a scab, the only remainder of a night that I have no recollection of. 

“Still with Greenwald?” 

I’m not sure ‘with’ was ever the right word when it comes to Alex and I, but I say yes, anyway. I consider asking him about Ashlee, about Bronx, or Ashlee’s baby bump that covers the newsstands, just to shift the focus from me, but I don’t, not wanting to drag out this conversation anymore than it needs to be.

“Have you been - ” He’s interrupted by a beep, a signal from my other line. 

“Oh, um. Actually, I’m sorry, Pete, but there’s someone important calling on the other line.” Anticipation swirls in my veins, knowing it’s my dealer. I don’t bother trying to make up a lie who it might be. I don’t think it matters, anyway. 

“Oh, I - ” 

“It was nice talking to you,” I rush out, finger itching for the button. “Bye!” 

“Ry - ” 

I press down, Pete’s voice coming to an abrupt end. It’s instantly replaced with my dealers, rough and scratchy, like you’d expect a carton of cigarettes to sound if they could talk. 

I hate how it soothes me. 

* 

Emily shows up at my door with two eight balls and a bottle of Jack’s. It’s a recipe for one thing: a binge. That, and disaster. 

I couldn’t tell you when or where Emily came into my life, and while we often partied together, or even went on daylong binges, she was not my friend. I used to trust Brendon and Spencer, even Jon, with my life, but I could hardly trust these people to go to the washroom a few doors down, and return. I wasn’t sure trust was even a part of my vocabulary anymore. 

Emily looks like she might have been pretty once, in another lifetime when her eyes weren’t sunken into her skull, her skin so white it looks blue. Her hair is thick and grainy, the texture of straw. She reminds me of a sad, broken version of Keltie. 

We spend the next twenty-three hours in my living room, not eating, not drinking, sleeping or pissing. Instead, we snort lines that I can hardly feel, and watch a TV that Is never on. I fuck her, but I couldn’t tell you why. 

By the time the nineteenth hour hit, our nostrils were so raw and blistering, practically caving into our faces. She suggested we smoked it, and I shook my head. “The last time I tried it felt like I had the worst heartburn of my life. I couldn’t even enjoy the high.” 

“We could inject it.” 

That was something I had never done before. Snorting was one thing, but injecting seemed like something entirely different. Taboo. I felt dirty after I smoked it that one night in the bathroom of some seedy bar, like it was just another checkpoint in my inevitable downfall. But there was already hours of flaking blood sitting above my lip, and I could feel the beginning of yet another nosebleed. 

“I don’t have any needles.” 

She shrugged. “I have a few extras in my car.” 

Of course she did. 

She looked at me, waiting. Coke is coke, no matter what form or what way you’re taking it, but it was a promise I had made to myself. But then again, when was the last time my promises meant anything? “Okay,” I said, mouth feeling foreign to the rest of my body. If I had anything left of a conscious, I knew what it would be saying to me, but it had left awhile ago, packed up and moved onto someone actually worth saving. 

She told me to get her a glass of water and a large spoon while she ran to her car. When she returned, a package of needles and a large rubber band in her hand, they were waiting on the coffee table in front of me. Knees pulled to my gaunt chest, I watched as she filled a syringe with water, tapping out enough coke for an average line onto the metal spoon. 

“Have you ever injected before?” she asked. With careful precision, she released the water from the syringe and onto the spoon. 

“No.” 

She waited a moment longer as the water dissolved before filling the tube once again, the liquid now a murky white. “It’s okay. You might like it. The highs quicker and stronger, but it lasts shorter.” She shrugged, needle dancing between her fingers. I perked. A stronger a high? I wondered if that meant I’d be able to feel something again. 

She turned to look at me. “Do you want me to go first? Just to see?” 

I nodded, mouth dry. 

She set it down onto the table, tightening the rubber band around her forearm, clenching and unclenching her small fists. The band was so tight that the purple veins rose to the surface of her ivory skin, close enough that it looked as if they might burst through. I couldn’t see any proof of former use, scars or bruises, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I did this, I didn’t want reminders. 

I watched in awe as the needle poked through her skin, the liquid flowing into her veins in a matter of seconds. When she pulled out, there was a tiny bit of pink that floated around the bottom. 

The high hit her almost instantly, and she sunk back into the couch, pressing the balls of her hands into her eyes. Envious, I grabbed a clean needle from the pack, and followed her steps. She didn’t appear dead, the furthest thing from, and I took that as a good sign. 

I was shaking, so I forced myself to slow down, careful not to waste. 

Once the needle was in my arm, the tip pressed into a thick, blue vein, the high came crashing into me almost at once. It wasn’t quite like the first time, but it was the closest I’ve been since. 

Dropping the needle next to me, I let my head sink back against the couch. I pressed my hands against my face, and grinned manically into my fingers. Maybe the needles, the marks, would be worth it, for this. 

I closed my eyes, imagining I was back at the cabin, Brendon next to me, his breath soaking into my skin. When it was only the beginning, and the ending seemed so far. 

“How do you feel?” The voice didn’t belong to him though, not even close, and when I opened my eyes, Emily was the one looking back at me, the blue in her eyes only thin slits from where her pupils took over the rest. 

I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers between my eyes. “Okay,” I said. 

Not perfect, but okay, and that was enough.

 

**spring 2008**

I knew I was a joke to Alex; some kid in an emo band who used to wear vests made of roses and would paint makeup on his face. I could see it every time he looked at me, mouth pulled thin but eyes laughing, like he was recalling a joke once told to him. He probably was. I could imagine what him and his friends said behind closed doors, with their long hair and eccentric clothes that hung off their too-thin bodies. 

I didn’t let it stop me though. I was desperate for his approval, acceptance that I didn’t understand. I felt like I was in high school again, that awkward, gangly freshman thirsty for someone to notice me. 

At first, Brendon didn’t mind him; agreeing when I made offhand comments (“He’s really talented. I was listening to some songs he wrote.” “Did you know he was in Donnie Darko?”), and even inviting him up on stage during the end of one of our sets. But, then he’d watch with his eyes in thin slits as I came out of his dressing room, or left his bus late at night, my own red and blown-out, the feeling of snot running down my face. 

It was a sunny, May afternoon, the busses parked like checker-pieces next to a large, open field a few blocks down from our next venue. Alex and I were the only ones on my bus, the sounds of laughter and acoustic guitars trickling in through the open window from where we sat in the back lounge. By then I was still unsure as to whether I had his full approval or not, whether the small twinkle of laughter in his eyes were just my imagination, but it was often that we’d sneak away to do lines in hotel suits, dressing rooms or even washrooms at bars. Up until then I had been doing coke recreationally, at parties with friends, hidden from the eyes of my bandmates, but with Alex around, it was becoming increasingly more. 

In New York, three days earlier, Alex had fucked me in a grimy bar bathroom, the remnants of coke still on the toilet lid. I figured it had to count for something. 

When Brendon came into the lounge, jeans rolled past his calves and t-shirt hooked through a belt loop, his eyes fell on Alex’s hand on my thigh, the lines of coke spread out on the table in front of us. There was a moment where we only stared at each other, Brendon frozen in the doorway and me on the couch, caught in what I had been doing so well at hiding. If Alex hadn’t known what Brendon and I were already, he did then. 

For a moment, I waited for him to yell at me, to take the small fold-up table layered with coke and fling it across the room. But instead, he took one last look at me, eyes like glass, and left as suddenly as he appeared. 

Three lines later, the expression of his heart breaking across his face stayed with me, frozen in ice. 

* 

fall 2008 

Brendon glared at me, face stony and eyes flaring with anger, worry, disgust - maybe some pity. With a flat voice, he said, “You said you stopped.” 

My eyes dropped to where his hands had fallen to his sides, fingers digging violently into the plastic. I licked my lips, searching for an excuse, any way to get out of this unscathed. I brought my gaze back to his, to his flushed cheeks and furrowed eyebrows, and thought that it might not be possible, after all. “Some guy offered me some at the bar last night. I was drunk and feeling a little down. It’s not a big deal, I haven’t even touched it.” I shrugged, eyes darting from Brendon’s, to the baggy, and back up again. I wasn’t lying, not technically. I did get it from a guy at the bar, and I hadn’t touched it - not yet. But, it wasn’t the first purchase I’d made since Spencer, Brendon, Jon and Keltie had sat me down for an interrogation a couple months back, and I promised to stop. I’d bought a few actually - apparently I had just done a better job at hiding it. “Plus, what are you even doing searching through my shit?” I demanded, a poor attempt to turn the tables onto him. 

He wouldn’t have it though, because no matter how sneaky I thought I was, Brendon knew all my tricks like his own. “If you’re ‘feeling down,’ then talk to me. Talk to Spencer or Jon. Fuck, talk to Keltie even.” He crumpled the bag in his hand, teeth baring in disgust. “Don’t try to mask it with this shit.” 

My eyes slipped to the floor, and I mumbled, “Just because you choose not to do it, doesn’t mean I can’t. I like it, and I know what I’m doing. I am an adult, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

Brendon exhaled, shakily, clenching and unclenching the bag in his fist, once, twice, three times. His voice dropped as he said, “Maybe it’s all great now, but in a few months - years - down the road…” He trailed off, scared to speak the words, scared it’ll make them true. 

I shrugged, not meeting his gaze. I’d heard it countless times before; from Keltie, from Brendon, from a lot of people, but what did they know? They were basing it off of people who didn’t know what the hell they were doing, how to limit themselves. I did, and so did my friends. I could stop, if I really wanted to, but at that moment, I didn’t. It was fun, a rush. It offered me a kind of happiness that I’d never found anywhere else. I wished they’d all stop looking at me like I was collapsed on the dirty concrete of a back alley, needle sticking from my arm. 

“I know,” I said, the lie falling out from my mouth like warm butter. “I’ve stopped. It was just a stupid mistake.” I forced my eyes to meet Brendon’s, keeping a steady gaze on his. I could feel my heart pound against my ribcage, the thump-de-thump in my ears as Brendon searched my eyes, hesitant to believe me. 

Exhaling once more, long and defeated, Brendon threaded his hands through his hair as he said, “Do you promise me?” 

“I promise.” I nodded, adding yet another promise to a long string that I could never keep. 

He took a step forward, tongue darting across full lips. A hand circled around my wrist, and he looked up at me through round, doe eyes. Even now, even through it all, they left me woozy in the head, weak in the knees. “I’m just worried,” he said in a whisper. Sliding his hand down, he intertwined our fingers together and pressed our bodies closer. “I’ve just - I’ve heard so many stories. I don’t want that to happen to you.” He looked down, and murmured, voice scratchy, as if sticking to the walls of his throat, “You’ve changed already. And I just - I’m scared that - I don’t want to lose you.” 

“Hey,” I said, softly, nudging his chin up. I felt something I no longer was aware I had, soften inside my chest. He looked up at me, worry and uncertainty flashing through his eyes. “You won’t, okay? I’m right here.” 

Darting his gaze away, he tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, his hand hanging limply from mine. 

“I promise,” I vowed once more, waiting for the words to catch and pull him back. 

He looked up, fingers digging into mine, and slowly, he smiled. 

* 

We could still hear them, the voices and laughter sharp as they slid underneath the doorway. If I listened close enough, I could hear Keltie as her and Cassie laughed on one of the beds, coolers in their hands. I didn’t know if she saw as we slipped into the bathroom, but no matter how far I dug, I couldn’t find a part of me that cared. Brendon was between me and the counter, my hands clinging to his waist as his own fell to his sides, straight as arrows. 

Over the course of the past few weeks, something had changed. Instead of circling around me, like the earth to the sun, Brendon shied away from me. He kissed me, but it was like he wasn’t there. 

Our roles had switched. I was now the one pulling, grasping for something tangible between us. Underneath my hands in that hotel washroom, I could feel him slipping away; vanishing, as if into thin air. I was afraid that if I took my eyes off of him for too long, he would be gone entirely. 

I couldn’t lose him. He was the one person I needed, the one solid foundation out of them all; even Spencer had given up on me. Brendon was my one ray of hope, shredding a sliver of light onto my path as I fell to the bottom. 

I kissed him, tongue pushing into his mouth, and while he kissed me back, the air between us was dead; what was once electricity was now only a tiny shock, barely noticeable upon touch. I was desperate. I had to bring him back to me. Clutching onto his hip, fingers digging into the bone, I nudged my nose against his, foreheads brushing. I closed my eyes, breathed through my mouth and into his, and murmured, quiet as the night, “I love you.” 

I waited for him to fall into me; kiss me, tell me he loved me too, for everything to go back to how it once was. But that’s not what happened. Instead, he slipped from under me, backing away as if burnt, eyes flashing with something hard and unforgiving. 

I looked back at him, helpless. Raw and vulnerable, turned inside out for him to see. I had let myself out for him, let him see everything, and he no longer wanted it. 

He shook his head, the sharpness in his eyes now suddenly dim, a sadness to them. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted for you to say that,” he finally said, voice rough and strained, like it had been grated with sandpaper. It wasn’t in the way I’d hope he’d say it, throwing his arms around my neck and kissing my face. “Out of all the ways I imagined this, never did it involve you high on fucking coke and your girlfriend just outside the door.” 

I said nothing, caught and confused, and he shook his head, spitting. “You think I can’t taste it on you? See it in your eyes? I’m not fucking stupid, Ryan. I’m not this naïve, little child you seem to think I am. You think I don’t know that you’ve been lying to me? All you’ve ever done is fucking lie to me!” 

Not knowing what else to do, I stared back at him, lost. Over the years I could count the number of times he had gotten mad at me, stood up to me. When I could see the struggle on his face while he tried not to cave under my touch, my look. Even after he walked in on Alex and I in the lounge, he was distant at first, shrugged off my touch, but it didn’t last for long. It never did. 

The thing was, I knew how easy it was to mould him into my hand. It was okay if I did this or did that, because all I had to do was kiss his neck in a certain place, or press my finger to his wrist and it was like nothing had ever happened. It was never right, and certainly not healthy, but I was like a child. You let me get away with it for so long, giving me excuses and sweeping it underneath the rug, I forgot how it was really supposed to be. 

Brendon blinked at me, arms wrapped around his chest like a blanket. He suddenly looked so small; but I felt smaller. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. It’s like I look at you now - ” He stopped short, shaking his head. With his hand on the doorway, his head tilted down towards the tile, he swallowed. 

My mind was still lost, floating somewhere above us, unwanted and battered with the ‘I love you.’ All Brendon had ever wanted was to hear those words from me, those three stupid words. I’d see it in his eyes, or the way he’d scratch at my skin like he was trying to claw something out of me, and I had finally given it to him. It wasn’t wrapped in a pretty bow or presented under a tree filled with lights, but I meant it. I meant it, and he just threw it back at me, shredded up an torn up like trash. 

“I can’t - ” He looked at me, eyes catching briefly. I clutched onto the counter behind me, eyes drifting to the shower curtain, the line of seashells that decorated the trim. “I can’t do this anymore, Ryan.” 

He had said it before; when I met Keltie. Alex. Coke. He said it, but he never meant it, and I always knew he didn’t. But there’s something different this time, quieter, like it held something instead of just a hollow case. This time, when he said it, it scared me. 

Without looking up, I heard the door click open, the noise from the others outside filtering in. I watched his feet, frozen in the doorway, as if waiting for me to argue with him, prove him wrong, beg him to stay, but I had already given him everything that I could. 

Without another word, he left. 

 

**summer 2011**

On my birthday, I expect a voicemail from Brendon. 

Whether I admit it or not, it’s the one thing I’ve looked forward, the one push I need. 

The past two years since the split, Brendon has called when he’s sure no one would pick up - late at night, early in the morning - and sung ‘Happy Birthday’ through the phone, soft and morose. Every year, I’ve come home the morning after my birthday, sat on my couch and listened to it on repeat until the words become no more than a jumbled mess of hums and syllables. 

The thing is, this year, I wait five days after my birthday, ignoring the phone every time it rings, until I realize it’s not coming. 

* 

When Keltie flies down to Los Angeles for a dance show, she agrees to meet up with me. She’s not Brendon, but she’s something, at least. 

The entire ride down Highway 1, I plan ways to win her back. I figure it can’t be too hard; say some sorry’s, I love you’s. I’ll quit drugs, drinking. We’ll get married just like she always wanted, raise a family in Vermont. 

She’s not Brendon, but I can pretend. I’ve become a master at doing just that. 

By the time I reach downtown, the mountain that bears the Hollywood sign barely visible beneath grey clouds, I realize this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I had spent so long avoiding my past, scared to see how far down the path I’d really fallen, and here I was facing it head on. 

When I pull up to the small café, I’m already considering turning around and driving back home. Instead, I pull into the back corner of the parking lot, quiet except for a pair of crows that sit above me on the telephone wire. I pull a small vial from my pocket, and snort up the remainder. It was full when I left. 

By the time I make it to the front door, my sleeves are worn and stretched past the tips of my fingers from where I’ve been tugging. I’m worried that the marks will burn through the fabric, showing what I’m not proud of. Show her where exactly I’ve come. How desperate I am for some taste of normal, no matter how miniscule. 

She’s sitting at a table, delicate fingers wrapped around a large, red mug. Another sits in front of the empty seat across from her, small and black. She looks up at the sound of the bell, chiming above my head as I enter. She doesn’t smile. 

She looks even more stunning than I remember, with golden waves and features so smooth it was like they had been gone over and perfected with a blending stick. I could almost smell her from here, spicy and sweet; cinnamon and the changing leaves in autumn. I’m reminded of what it’s like to look at her, and know what I’m supposed to feel, but can’t. 

As I approach, my eyes catch a bright gleam on her finger, a small band that holds to it. She motions to the seat across from her, the light that reflects from the gold dances across the air. “Sit. I got you coffee. Black, like you like it.” 

I sit, unable to pull my eyes from her finger. She’s engaged. Married, maybe. Like Brendon, I always expected her to be there, waiting by the phone, curled up in a bunk. She was someone else’s, and who was I? 

“You look like shit,” she observes. 

I ignore her, and say, “Who is he?” 

She looks own, as if only recalling it’s existence now. “Oh,” she says, easy, “his name’s Jason.” She says no more on it, flicking her eyes across me instead. “You’re too skinny,” she states, vigilantly. 

I shrug, tugging on my sleeves. She’s right, after all. Clothes that used to fit me, that clung tight to my skin, now hang in loose sheets like ghosts. 

We make small talk. She asks me how I’ve been, and I lie; I ask her how she’s been, and she smiles, telling me the story of Jason and the gold band on her finger, a promise I could never make but she always hoped that I would. She tells me about him with wild, expressive eyes, and a smile that she can’t seem to fight off her face, nor does she want to. I force a smile and nod along, pretending I’m happy for her. She doesn’t have to tell me he’s everything she was desperately searching for in me, but could never find. 

When she finishes, she looks over me, the same contemplative expression on her face that she used to give me, as if trying to bore herself into my head and attempt to decode my thoughts. She never managed to, of course; I couldn’t even figure them out myself. “Have you seen him lately?” 

I freeze, feeling my skin turn a sickly yellow as I turn away from her gaze. “Who?” 

She looks at me, blank, like I know exactly who. I do, but I wish I didn’t. I wait a moment, then slowly shake my head. 

“How long?” 

The words are heavy and sharp in my throat, and when I finally force them up, they come out in no more than a light whisper. “Awhile.” 

We’re quiet for a moment, and I can feel her eyes on me, pitying. I turn my head away further, focusing on a painting of the ocean, the waves tumbling and crashing against a dark sky. “Why do you do this to yourself?” 

Running my lips along my cracked lips, dry like sand, I say, “He’s happier now.” 

“I bet he’s not.” 

I turn back to look at her, my dead eyes to hers, so alive. “Why are you doing this?” I counter, voice still quiet, barely recognizable over the angry whirring of the blenders and Elton John flowing melodically from the speakers above. “Why would you - why - ” I shake my head, lost. Confused as to how this is the same Keltie sitting across from me, suggesting what would have once caused her to cry the makeup off her face. 

“Because, Ryan, I want you to be happy. You don’t deserve this. You need to stop punishing yourself. I’ve come a long way from being hurt and angry.” 

No, I want to say, I don’t deserve this. I’m always getting what I don’t deserve. People that love me. People that let me walk all over them, one that’s are still there, crawling for me while wounded and broken. I hurt her, just like I’ve hurt everyone that’s ever loved me. Maybe I didn’t love her the way I was supposed to, but I loved her. I loved her and I hurt her. And now she’s here, staring back at me with pity thick in her eyes, wishing I was happy when she should be watching with delight as I crash to the bottom. 

“You should call him.” 

I shake my head. I let him go. It was the one promise I was able to keep, the one I’ll take to my grave. There are no more calls on my birthday. No more hearing his laughter, rich, getting underneath my skin and washing through me in warm waves. No more beauty marks on right ribs. Freckles to trace with my tongue. Someone to cling onto me no matter how hard I try to push them down. There’s no more, but that’s okay. He deserves better than someone with track marks on their arm, bones sticking out of their nearly transparent skin. 

“He’d forgive you, you know,” she says. 

He would, and that’s the problem. 

She sighs, shaking her head, her blonde hair rolling across her tanned shoulders. “Ryan - come on. Stop doing this. Everyone’s accepted it, so why can’t you? Why do you have it stuck in your head that it’s so awful to - ” 

“Don’t say it,” I interrupt her, feeling the blood rush to my face and nausea curl in my gut. 

She looks at me, thin lips drawn together in a line. I hate the look in her eyes, the disappointment, the solace, the look that she feels she owes me something. She doesn’t. Finally, in nothing more than a whisper, she says, “He loves you.” She wait’s a beat, and I stare down at the untouched cup of coffee, heart reverberating in my cheeks. “And you love him. Why is that so wrong?” 

I can’t handle this anymore; it was stupid idea to come. I stand up so suddenly that the chair nearly goes flying out from beneath me, screeching murderously against the floor. “I gotta go,” I mumble. She protests, calling my name, but I ignore her, walking briskly towards the door with shaking legs. I don’t know why I expected this to go any differently. 

I can hear her high heels clicking behind me, calling my name frantically, but I keep my eyes forward, attempting to sort my thoughts enough to remember how to walk. She catches up to me by the time I reach my car, yanking the keys from my hand as I fumble to get it into the lock. 

“Ryan, stop it!” she demands, shrill, eyes livid and shocking against her pale hair. All I have to do is look at her, the charm bracelet dangling from her thin wrist, her pencil skirt clinging to her spider legs, and her eyes, wide and terrified, and I begin to cry. 

I turn from her, falling back against my car and slowly begin to sink down towards the concrete. I’m still shaking, and when I pull my legs to my chest, my knees knock against my teeth. It feels like everything is slipping away from me. It’s that despair, but it feels so big, so huge, that not even some white powder can try to cover up, sweep underneath the rug like dirt and hope no one notices. I’ve always known there’s something not right, but this feels like too much. For once, I want to be able to look at her, have her beneath my fingers, and want her to be there. 

“God, Ryan, why are you doing this?” Her momentary anger is gone, the desperation back as she kneels on the ground beside me, knees scraping against the gravel. Her voice is higher this time, more scared, like she doesn’t know whether to run in the opposite direction or try to glue me back together. She spent two years trying to do just that, watching as the cracks only became deeper underneath her slender hands. 

Her arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me into her as she presses her head against mine. Her scent is stronger now, and through my tears and hiccups, I can smell the rich scent of cinnamon and her fruity shampoo she buys in cases. “I just want to understand,” she murmurs into my ear. 

But that’s the thing, everyone always wanted to understand. Why I said this, or why I felt this, did this, but I didn’t even understand myself, so how could they? I couldn’t understand that no matter how much I loved Brendon, there was still some mornings I’d wake up with such shame that I could barely get out of bed. That sometimes he’d touch me, and all I’d feel was disgust. That I had to fuck girls, and hurt him, because I felt that it made up for it. That I’d get so irritated, so angry, that he’d still love me, even after all I did. I couldn’t understand why I could never feel for Keltie, for Z, or even Jac, the way I felt for him, like I could breathe him in, claw myself underneath his skin and stay there. I couldn’t understand why my father, the teachers at school, the fucking priest, were still haunting my thoughts, holding me down in chains underwater. 

“So do I.” 

She sighs, quiet and desolate, her warm breath trickling down my neck. The sky above us is dark, a thick layer of clouds blanketing the sky and trapping the sun out. There’s always clouds now, hanging above me, miserable and unrelenting. I can’t remember the last time I could feel the sunlight, the rays soak into my skin. 

A couple passes by, but they don’t see us where we’re sitting on the ground, hidden between two cars. I try not to think about how I’m on the verge of a breakdown in the middle of a parking lot in L.A., my ex-girlfriend next to me, telling me I should be with the man I cheated on her with for the entire course of our relationship. I don’t need to feel more pathetic than I already do. 

Without much of a second thought, I turn my head, and before Keltie has a chance to reply I press my mouth against hers. She still tastes the same, like her blueberry lipgloss and sugared coffee. For a moment, she kisses me back, and I don’t know why I’m surprised by this. Her and Brendon, they always kiss me back. 

I pull back, my eyelids still drawn and head down. I can hear her steady breathing, feel it as it brushes against my cheek. Swallowing, I mutter in anguish, “Why can’t I feel anything?” I push my palm into my face, choking back the tears threatening to resurface. “Fuck. Why - ” I shake my head, feeling ashamed as a small whispers escapes from my throat and into the air. 

She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, her perfectly painted nails against my skull. “It’s okay,” she whispers, dropping her head against my shoulder, soft hair tickling my nose. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

I shake my head, because it’s not. The last time it was there were oceans and blue skies and trees in bloom as the highway rolled beneath us. 

“Everything will be all right,” she says after a few minutes, and maybe, I’d believe her if I could tell from her voice that she did too. 

 

**spring 2009**

It took a month after Valentines Day for Keltie to finally answer my phone calls. I expected her to yell at me, to shoot the same malicious words and insults at me like she had done that last time we spoke, like Brendon had done. She didn’t though, instead she sat silent and reserved on the other line, and I was surprised when she agreed to meet up with me the following week when I flew in to New York to visit Alex.

We met at Central Park, and when I arrived, she was already there and sitting on the bench across from the duck pond. A bright, yellow umbrella was clutched in her hand, shielding her from the rain. 

I said hi, sat down next to her, no umbrella of my own. I was already wet from the walk over, raindrops sliding down my face like cold tears. She didn’t return the greeting, or offer me shelter underneath her umbrella. 

The pond was deserted, the ducks taking their own form of shelter, except for a single one that floated along the edge. We both watched it, silent. Finally, she began to speak, but as soon as the words came out of her mouth, I wished she hadn’t. “You love him.” 

I shook my head, went to protest, to lie, but she cut me off. “You love Brendon, and not me. You always have, and I’ve always known but wished I hadn’t.” Stopping, she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, pondering what to say next. She kept her eyes straight ahead, expression lifeless, as if she couldn’t see me sitting right next to her. I was transparent. “I thought that maybe I could change you, that eventually you’d love me. That you could look at me the way you looked at him.” Sighing, she shakes her head, light rouge brushed softly across her high cheekbones. “Now I know it was selfish of me. It was stupid. Useless.” She spits out the last word, it slipping like venom between her painted on lips. 

The text hadn’t even been from him. It was from this girl, Kate, who I foolishly slept with at a party or three. I had no reason for it. I was high and drunk and horny, and she was there, willing. She wasn’t Brendon, and neither was she Keltie. She wasn’t expecting anything; no ‘I love you’s written out in roses, no promises I couldn’t keep, no lie telling her she was the only one. Or, maybe she did, but I didn’t care enough to notice. But, I had known, even through the distance on the telephone line, that this wouldn’t be about her. 

“I don’t - ” 

“Stop lying to me, Ryan,” she said, sharp, even, and I snapped my mouth shut. “I’m so sick of you always lying. To me, to everyone. To yourself. How does it feel to constantly be living a lie?” 

I couldn’t tell her. I had been doing it for so long now that I couldn’t even remember what the truth felt like it anymore, or if it even existed. 

“You love him,” she said once more, and I wished she’d stop. “I’d tell myself that you guys were just close friends. You had been through a lot, so of course you guys could relate in ways that most people couldn’t. I told myself that the way you looked and talked about each other was just friendship. Love you’d have for a friend.” She paused, as if giving her words a moment to sink into my skin along with the rain. “I told myself the way Brendon always stayed one step back from me, and spoke to me like it was a chore was only my imagination. My insecurities and paranoia. Or the way that he’d look at us together.” She shook her head, her blonde hair wound in loose waves, cascaded down her raincoat. “God, even the way you looked at me. You always seemed somewhere else, always a few inches from my grasp even if you were right there.” Her knuckles were white from where she was grasping onto the umbrella, eyes still blank as she stared across the water, the bare branches on the trees rustling in the wind. “It was stupid. So fucking stupid. It was just me living in a fairytale again, thinking I could heal the wounded prince and then everything would be perfect with time. I should’ve known Brendon had been trying the exact same thing all along.” 

While the rain was only a light drizzle now, I was soaked. My clothes clung heavy to my body, the cold rain seeping to the bones, like it was there to stay. 

“I’m done pretending,” she said, quiet. “And so should you.” 

Without another word, she stood up. I looked up at her, silent, as hers watched mine vacuously. “Bye, Ryan.” 

“Bye,” I said, the words barely making it from my mouth. There was too much I wanted to say, words that I had left, but I wasn’t sure where to find them. I wished I could’ve begged her to stay, asked her not to give up on me, not yet, that I could still be her prince, but the thing that had once been second nature to me suddenly seemed like the impossible. 

Alone on the bench, I watched as she walked away down the empty path, yellow umbrella coating her like armour. 

The rain began to pick up, but I stayed, watching as the lone duck floated mercilessly across the water, as if searching for something he’d never find. 

* 

By the time we reached Africa, the tension between us was too thick and too intrusive, impossible to ignore or turn an eye on. There was a clear divider between us all, separate sides of a war zone. Brendon had barely spoken to me since that night in the hotel washroom, but those three words hung between us, sounding like a bad reminder whenever our eyes met. 

As I expected, it didn’t take long before he wound up in my bed, tangled in the sheets, chest rising and falling ceremoniously against mine. It was not the first time we’ve fucked when angry, or hurt, when I pushed in a bit harder and his nails dug into my flesh a bit deeper, but it was never like this. There was a space between us now, even from where we were connected. It was empty; a distance that couldn’t be measured with a ruler or map. It was desperation, the final attempt to claw something back that was already long gone. 

Brendon changed without a word, pushing his hands through his tousled hair and blinking rapidly, as if it would erase what had just happened. I pulled the blankets tighter against my body, all bones and skin and tainted blood, and tried not to think of the baggy of powder sitting on the bottom of my suitcase. Four hours after landing, I had already found a supplier. 

His shoulders were sagging now, as if competing with his feet. His clothes were on, but instead of leaving, he stayed with his eyes tilted towards the cream tiled floor. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, quietly, a noticeable shake slipping in between words. 

He lifted his eyes to look at me, but I turned away before they could reach mine, hands picking at the soft cotton. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Maybe I would. If you’d let me. Let me understand. But you don’t - you don’t - ” He stopped and shook his head, Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallowed back the tears. 

“I like it,” I replied, evenly, trying not to let my emotions seep through and show. The last time I had done that, put myself out for Brendon to take, he threw them back at me. There was nothing left now. “You have no idea what it’s like to live your whole life feeling like you’re never good enough, and this one thing, this one, little thing can make that all change. At least for awhile.” 

Brendon stared at me, the air thickening between us, suffocating. When I turned to look at him, he was biting onto his bottom lip, tears welling in his eyes. So quiet, it was barely a whisper, he said, “Not even me.” It wasn’t a question, and the statement hit me in the ribcage, puncturing the bone. 

I looked at him, and said nothing. 

It might’ve been true, but not in the way Brendon was thinking. The things I felt when he kissed me or told me I was perfect, that I was more talented than I’d ever comprehend, or the way he believed in me more than anyone else ever had, was something that coke couldn’t compare to. But the thing was, I wasn’t good enough for that. I didn’t deserve everything he poured into me so easily. He deserved much more; someone who could give the same back, that would be able to tell him how much they loved him, at all times, not in a hotel bathroom while their girlfriend laughed outside. He didn’t deserve to be someone’s secret, something to be ashamed of. He deserved to be paraded around, put on a pedestal for everyone to see. He deserved everything that I couldn’t give to him. 

He wrapped his arm around his chest, head falling as if there was no longer any support to hold it up. He sniffed, and looked away so I didn’t have to see the single tear that escaped. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember what it felt like to be anything other than this. 

“Okay, then,” he said, but it was barely there. “Right.” He stopped, as if waiting for me to tell him that what he was thinking was wrong, that he could make me feel more than some silly drug ever could. 

I didn’t. 

The sound of the door slamming, the noises he made as he tried to choke back the tears, echoed for hours, through the coke and the comforters that I buried myself inside; the ones that smelt like him. 

If only he knew he was more than I could ever hope for it to be. 

* 

Sitting on the couch, Spencer and Brendon stood before me, eyes red and expressions stony. Jon was behind them, looking vaguely uncomfortable with his head down and hands shoved in pockets. I stared up at them, wishing I had snorted a quick line while I still had the chance. 

Spencer said, “Ryan, you have a problem.” 

I blinked. Thought, here we go again. 

“I mean it. Do you think we’re stupid? Do you think we can’t see you? How you’ve changed?” Spencer demanded, eyes flashing with anger. Disgust, maybe. It was no question who’s idea this had been. 

Brendon bit onto his lip, and said nothing. He couldn’t even look at me anymore. 

Jon kicked at the ground, tangled curls falling in front of his eyes. 

“You need help,” Spencer said, stony and serious. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I laughed, but it sounded scratchy, faded like an old record. “I don’t have a problem,” I said, but even then, I was beginning to feel the doubt. It wasn’t like it used to be, when I could go a few days without feeling much but the want to feel good again. Now it was the burning in my veins, as if my blood was poisoned, the tainting in my vision, the crawling under my skin if I waited longer than a few hours without a line or three. I couldn’t even really hide it anymore, nor did I care to. It didn’t matter, anyway. “I know what I’m doing, and in case you need reminding, this is my life, and what I do is not up to you. I’m sick of letting you guys make me feel bad, treating me like I’m some child.” Even as the words came from my mouth, they felt foreign, not like my own. 

Brendon turned around, back to me, palms tucked under his armpits. A small, choked noise slipped from inside his throat, and I watched as his back shook underneath his too small t-shirt. Something subtle tugged at the bottom of my gut, but I pushed it away. I had been trying too hard not to let Africa and the day I let him walk out of my life, flood back to me in fractured images. 

“It may be your life, but we can’t sit around and watch you destroy it anymore,” Spencer replied, solemnly. “This has been going on for over a year now, and we can’t do it any longer.” He paused, and looked me straight in the eye. This wasn’t the same Spencer that I had approached in his yard, with the Spiderman shirt and grass-stained knees, asking if I could play soccer with him. This wasn’t the same Spencer that took me in when no one else would. Or, maybe it was. Maybe I was the one that was no longer in the memories. “It’s either you get help or it’s over. We’re done.” 

Jon didn’t say a word. Instead, he only stood there, head to the ground like if he stared at it long enough it might open up and swallow him whole. He was anything but an angel himself; sure, he might not have taken it as far as me, but he had done his share of partying and drugs. During our Rockband tour, there had been plenty of times when we were in the backroom writing songs, and had occasionally indulged in a line or two. And yet, there he was, joining in on Spencer and Brendon’s own little version of Intervention. 

“Ryan,” Spencer said again, sharp. “I mean it. It’s either us or the coke.” 

Maybe this was Spencer, but this wasn’t me. I wasn’t that kid, naïve and unmindful to my own mother leaving me or my dad drinking himself into oblivion. The kid that believed in his band more than he believed in himself. I was somebody else now, my life had split awhile ago, pulling me in two separate directions. That kid, he got lost somewhere along the way, and it was time everyone brought in the Missing posters and carried on with their lives. 

Brendon was still turned away, face in his hands, while Spencer stood beside him, motionless. His eyes said the same thing Brendon’s did, pleading me to tell him differently, to stop him from letting this happen. I looked at him, and knew it was time for them to let go. That if they couldn’t do it, I would do it for them. 

Picking myself up off the couch, I looked at Spencer, and then Jon, trying to push away the sound of Brendon’s stuttered breath. I looked at Spencer, holding his gaze for what seemed like the last time, and then turned, disappearing out the front door. 

 

**fall 2011**

Alex says, “I’m sorry, Ry, but I just don’t think it’s going to work anymore.” 

He says, “I don’t know what’s happened to you.” 

He looks down at my arm, as if he can see what’s hidden beneath the knitted cotton of my t-shirt. There’s a needle on my table, a spoon next to it. 

I say nothing, and Alex says, “You’ve taken it too far.” 

I stare at the needle, the ceramic pot, the trash that layers my house. I haven’t been outside in days. My mirror in my bathroom is in shards all over the floor from where I had thrown the radio into it. I couldn’t look at myself; the marks on my face from where I had been picking at it because I couldn’t stand the sight staring back anymore. 

And now there’s Alex, standing before me, with his stupid, greasy hair and his chapped lips, looking at me in the same way he had back so many years ago. I’m a joke, and I always have been. Except, I’m not that kid trying too hard anymore, I’m the kid that went too far. I’m that kid that sticks needles into his arm, trying to feel something that is no longer there. 

Alex was supposed to be the one, solid foundation in my world of cracks, and now I don’t even have that anymore. He’s leaving me, just like everyone else. 

Hand on the door, he says, “You need help, man,” and then he’s gone. 

* 

I don’t know what I’m looking for when I decide to head to the basement, but when I see them sitting there, eyes glazed over and needles hanging from their veins, I figure this must be it. 

The disgust burning inside is stronger than it’s ever been. I’m the guy that breaks down in parking lots, can’t even feel cocaine anymore, and got told he was pathetic by a man who locks himself in his basement for days because he thinks the FBI are after him. I already look like a heroin addict, with track marks and scabs on my face, I figure I might as well be one. At least they look happier with the drug running through their veins than I can remember being in a long time. 

There’s still music flooding in from upstairs, causing the ceiling to vibrate above us. Taking one look at me in the doorway, a longing expression on my face, a guy with frizzy, red hair that I had seen around at parties like this but never spoke to, outstretches his hand towards me. In his palm there’s a needle, brown liquid floating inside. I’ve never spoke to him, but I know that he’s a dealer, and I know why he’s offering it to me for free. It’s the same reason dealers will show up at high school parties and give desperate teenagers a taste of cocaine along with his number. So they get hooked, crave it, and come to him for more. 

I see the trap right in front of me, waving like a red flag, but I go right for it, anyway. What does it matter anymore? Alex is gone, Jon is gone, Spencer. Brendon. My mother, father. It doesn’t matter what detours I take along the way, it all leads to the same destination. I might as well take in some scenery along the way. 

As I tighten the thick band around my bicep, I try to block out the thoughts that if I wasn’t heading towards the very bottom before, I certainly was now. How I keep making stupid mistake after stupid mistake, until one day I won’t even have the choice to make another. I don’t think about any of it, all I care about is feeling like they do; like they can breath, to feel things like no one else ever has. 

It hits me before I’ve properly removed the needle from my arm, so hard that I have to sink back into the couch, letting it rush through my body and turn my organs into jelly. It isn’t like the first time I did coke, it doesn’t make me feel perfect, or normal, but it numbs me to the point where it no longer matters, and that’s more than I could’ve ever hope for. 

I suddenly wish Brendon was there to experience it with me - not to do it, I wouldn’t let him - but just so he can catch me if I begin to slip through the cracks. Just like he’s always been there with his soothing voice, smooth like honey. Or his smile. God, his smile. 

I look around, the people melting into the couches with me, becoming one with it. I feel warm, like my blood has been wrapped in insulation, and that’s nice, because I’ve always been cold. I look at the people, smiling so loosely, doves coming from their eyes. 

I look at them, and in my head I can hear Keltie, hear her saying that everything will be all right, eventually. I can hear as Brendon sings it, smooth, carrying me over the waves. 

 

**fall 2010**

When I decided to throw a party, the last two people I expected to come walking through my door were Spencer and Brendon. I wasn’t aware they even knew where I lived. 

Upon first glance, I planned on doing what any mature, responsible adult would do and hide out in my bedroom until they left. However, Brendon spotted me almost instantly from where I was half-hidden behind the doorframe leading to the living room. Without a moment’s hesitation he came marching up to me, a forced smile on his lips, as if the last time we saw each other wasn’t over a year ago while tears streamed down his face. Spencer lagged behind him, a classic scowl pulled tight across his expression. He still hadn’t forgiven me, and I doubted he ever would. 

Brendon looked good, almost too good, and I had to stop myself from doing what was all too familiar. 

“Hey, stranger,” Brendon said, casually. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“What are you doing here?” was the first thing to come from my mouth. My brain was going too many places, still riding on those lines I had just done with Alex and a few others. 

Brendon appeared vaguely offended, although not surprised. 

I could imagine what I looked like to them; snot running from my nose, pupils blown out and eyes red with threads of veins, but then I remembered that it hardly mattered. It was nothing they hadn’t seen handfuls of times before. 

“I invited them,” Jon answered for them as he approached from behind, Corona clutched in his hand. 

While Spencer offered one of the briefest of smiles, Brendon launched himself on Jon, almost tackling him to he ground as he wrapped him in a warm hug. I watched, vaguely recalling a time when Brendon’s arms offered me more comfort than cocaine tries to now. I wished I could feel that again; a fraction, even. “Jon Walker! I’ve missed you!” 

“I’ve missed you too, man,” Jon agreed, hugging him back just as tightly. 

I watched in discomfort, arms pulled around my narrow waist as Jon proceeded to pull Spencer in for a hug after letting Brendon go. Brendon tried to catch my eye, but I looked away before he could. I didn’t want him there. I didn’t want to be reminded. Didn’t Jon know that? 

It’s then that Alex came stumbling over, hair a mess and eyes too dark. He threw an arm around my neck, pulling me flush against his side while slurring into my ear. “Well, well, look who decided to grace us with their presence. I’m so sorry we weren’t able to roll out the fucking red carpet for you guys.” He held a strong, challenging gaze on Brendon, who stared back, even and just as fierce and ready for battle. 

I refused to meet either of their eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead, but even then, I could feel the tension heated and lethal between the two of them. It was like someone had pressed rewind on a remote, bringing us right back to where we were over a year ago. 

Drunkenly, I attempted to slip from Alex’s lock, but he held on tighter. 

The other three remained silent, and I could only imagine the blood pooling in Brendon’s mouth from where he was biting down on his tongue. It might not seem it, but Brendon was always more civilized, more mature when it came to handling matters with Alex. There had been a handful of drunken fights between them in the past, all stemming from that day Brendon walked in on us in the backroom. Most of the time, Brendon was good at keeping his mouth shut and taking whatever drunken insults Alex lashed out. I never knew how he did it, and if it wasn’t for the cocaine fogging my vision, compiled with my blind infatuation at the time, my respect would’ve grown tremendously for Brendon. 

In all the time I had known him, Alex never had any consideration for others, never any morals, sober or not. It was something I had once admired in him, but I could no longer remember why. 

“It’s goddamn precious, you know?” he continued. “The whole gang back together.” 

Flinching, I caught Jon’s gaze, long enough for me to see the anger flashing through. Even through my blurred vision I could read what they said, loud and clear. If you don’t get him to leave, I will and it will not be pretty. Much like Brendon and Spencer, Jon never saw the appeal in Alex like I did. From the start he was irritated by his arrogance, obnoxious comments and destructive habits. He was much better at hiding his dislike than others though; however, there was the times when not even he could keep it from showing through. Those times, much like now, I could hardly blame him. 

“Alex,” I said, feebly, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on, let’s go. We can - ” 

“Well, it’s great to see that you didn’t change at all, Alex,” Brendon said, calm but with a sharpened edge. I closed my eyes, wishing I could sink into the carpet. “You’re such a fucking train-wreck that it’s quite sad, really. 

Letting out a loud, sadistic laugh, Alex said, “Oh, yeah. Right. I must be. What was that you’d say again? Oh, right, that I ruined poor Ryan’s life here. Right, yeah. I mean, clearly I must’ve.” He turned his attention to me where I was still squirming uncomfortably in his hold, avoiding all eyes that I knew were on me. “Look how miserable I’ve made you, Ryan. You’re miserable. Completely fucking wrecked, aren’t you?” 

I swallowed, all blood draining from my face. Brendon was looking at me now, but it wasn’t anger I saw in his eyes, it was pity, so thick and filled to the brim that I had to look away before it all came spilling out. “Alex,” I said, pointedly, more firm this time, heart feeling all too heavy inside my chest. “Come on. Let’s go find Bill, I think he’s hiding upstairs.” 

His eyes lit up at the mention; I knew it was the one thing that he was never able to turn down. “‘Kay.” He moved his arm from around my neck to grip at my waist, possessive, watching Brendon as he did so, taunting him. Brendon didn’t even flinch. “You’re right, let’s go.” 

I didn’t offer a glance of apology to Brendon, Spencer, not even Jon, as I allowed Alex to tug me away. I didn’t want to look at them, their thoughts and judgements and pity written out all over their faces in clear, angry writing. I could imagine Jon telling them, head hung in disappointment, who Bill really was. I wish I didn’t care, but I always did. 

In my bedroom, the door locked securely behind us, Alex went straight for my dresser. I took a seat on my bed, feeling a bit shaky in the knees as I replayed the look in Brendon’s eyes, over and over and over again. It had been a year, and the only thing it showed me was that no matter what, Brendon would always have the same mind-numbing effect on me. No matter how many times I tried to banish it, lock it away in heavily secured vaults. It was unfair how easily he could do this to me without so much as trying. 

Alex returned to me with a metal tray and a baggy, smirking as he said, “Oh, Bill, so much better company than those assholes.” 

I offered him a weak smile, watching with hunger as he laid the tray on the bedside table, pouring white powder onto the surface. 

It wasn’t until after, when we were sprawled out across the covers, flying high and floating somewhere in the midst of bliss, that Alex turned to me and stated, voice carrying no emotion or question, “You still love him.” 

I closed my eyes, eyelashes fluttering over my cheek. I took a moment, then replied, as even as I could, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh,” he replied, hoarsely, cold breath against my skin, “but I do.” 

* 

The next morning, I woke up to my face planted into the sofa cushion and a heavy banging, that after a minute or two of disorientation, realized was coming from the front door. Groaning, a sharp pain shot all the way from my spine to my temple in a matter of moments as I peeled myself from the couch. It was my first sleep in god knows how long, and instead of feeling refreshed, I somehow felt even worse. 

I was expecting to open the door to Alex, bitching about how he lost his key, or another one of my friends blabbering on about how they left their purse with a gram of coke inside. However, it was Brendon who was standing on my front step, looking surprisingly aloof. 

The words didn’t travel to my brain fast enough, still hazy from the alcohol and drugs rummaging somewhere in my body. I figured last night was the last I’d see of Brendon in at least another six months. I was okay with that. I needed that. I didn’t want him showing up, sending me right back to the place I had been trying to forget for so long. 

What I wanted to say was, ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’ but instead, it came out something along the lines of, “Uh. What - um. What the - ” 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Brendon replied abruptly, pushing past me. 

“Uh…” 

“We haven’t seen you in over a fucking year, and let me remind you, in case you just so happened to have forgotten, Spencer was your best friend since you were six fucking years old. And, I’d also like to remind you, that no matter how hard you want to pretend it never happened, I was not only your best friend, but your fucking boyfriend. The guy you screwed around for years, and you don’t even have the decency to get off your high fucking horse that you created with your drugs and god knows what else, and at least pretend to be civil? Instead, you go off with your fucking low-life, loser boyfriend who is so coked up he can’t even tell his head from his ass, never mind have the heart to care about anything but himself, including you,” Brendon snapped out all in one breath, face red and splotchy, pulled together like a ripe tomato. He took a deep breath, regaining his train of thought, and started up all over again, somehow, appearing even more enraged. “Fuck you, Ryan. Fuck you so hard. You’re so unbelievable. All we’ve ever done is tried, the whole time we’ve known you all we’ve done is try to make you happy, do what you wanted, and this is how you repay us? By completely writing us out of your life like dirt once something new and exciting comes along?” He waited, and then as an afterthought, just to add insult to the injury, he said, “Oh, and you look like absolute shit.” 

My headache had spread to my entire body by then, thrumming in my veins, my insides feeling like they had pulled out and drug through gravel. Never in all the time I had known Brendon, fucked him over and pushed him down and hurt him, had he ever said things in even half the degree that he had just now. I was caught between feeling proud, and wanting to curl into a corner to nurse my wounds. 

Judging by the sunlight pouring in through my window, my last fix had to have been at least four hours ago, drowned out by sleep and my fingers ached for more. I knew it would be next to impossible to get through anymore of this without at least something there, helping me through it, holding my hand, before I hurdled myself through the glass door and off the porch into the never-ending canyon below. 

I blinked, picking the scab on my elbow. “Uh. I’ve gotta go to the washroom…” 

Brendon was at my side so quick, grabbing onto my arm, tight enough that I was surprised it didn’t snap. “No,” he hissed, eyes flaring. “As long as I’m here I’m not going to let you take a goddamn thing. I’m not making that mistake again.” 

I tried to yank my arm back, rage swelling inside of me, but Brendon only held on tighter. “Fuck you. That last time I checked you had no say on what I do or not.” 

Brendon ignored me, fingers digging tighter into my pulse point until I was sure he was drawing blood. “Tell me, Ryan, when was the last time you were sober? Completely and one hundred percent sober?” I stared back, defiant, not saying a word, but I knew the answer was written clearly across my face. Brendon sneered, pulling at my wrist. “What are you trying to hide from? The fact that you’ve turned out exactly how you hoped you never would?” He stopped, eyes flashing over mine as he says, voice thick with venom, “That you turned out exactly like your father?” 

With that, I reeled back so quick that I had barely seen it coming myself. One minute Brendon was standing there with rage hot in his eyes, teeth barred, and the next he was clutching his cheek, fine skin reddening underneath his fingers. I kept my fist at my side, clenched in a tight ball, mind racing with more thoughts than I could handle. I had done a lot of things to hurt him over the years, but never had I hit him. “Fuck you!” I yelled. “How fucking dare you, you goddamn fucking asshole!” 

Brendon rubbed at his cheek before looking up, meeting my gaze, eyes cold and heavy, unapologetic. “What, Ryan?” he hissed through clenched teeth, cheek turning a harsh mixture of red and purple. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” 

I wound back for another punch, but he grabbed onto my wrist and pulled it back, causing pain to shoot up my arm from the angle. “You’re fucking weak,” he spit, laughing callously. 

I went to yank my hand back, return with something just as cruel, but Brendon cut me off before I had the chance, teeth biting down onto my bottom lip, hard. Hissing, pained, I pulled away only to see him staring back at me, expressionless. A second passed, not even, the both of us glaring and puffing angrily through our mouths, before I dove back in for a bruising kiss. I shoved him by the shoulders, causing him to hit the wall with a thud, our teeth knocking together. 

We had our fair share of angry sex over the years, and while it offered us some of our greatest sex, intense and hot and always topped with a mind-blowing orgasm, that was before. Back when we were still a band, still friends, and despite the fact that our relationship didn’t always prove to be the most normal, most healthy, we were still together. It was different now, this argument wasn’t about Brendon leaving his dirty socks on the bathroom floor or that he sung that second line in Mad as Rabbits wrong. This was a year - longer, even - of hurt and spite and resentment all rolled into one. This wasn’t something that could be resolved over an intense and dirty fuck, and we both knew it, but, of course, it was something we’d try anyway. And keep trying, keep trying. 

I knew it was a bad idea, but what did it matter when I couldn’t even remember the last time I had made a good one? And this was Brendon, and this was me, sober, and it had been too long since I was able to experience his skin against mine, appreciate every inch, without substance fogging my brain and making it less real than it was. 

Brendon shoved his hands up the front of my shirt, pushing the fabric to punch at my armpits. Into my lips, he grumbled, “Fucking skinny,” while I threw my arms up, allowing him to yank it off the rest of the way, tossing it onto the floor. I could taste the blood from where he sunk his teeth into me. 

I grunted in response while Brendon yanked off his own shirt, discarding it along with mine. When he fell back to meet my mouth, he took my already wounded lip back in between his teeth and bit down, causing a stronger taste of metallic to fill my mouth. 

Hissing once more, I stumbled back towards the staircase, pulling him along with me. I scraped my fingernail along his hip, teeth and tongues still fervently attached. I had missed his skin over the year. Warm and creamy, like velvet. I wanted to spend the next day running my fingers over every last expanse, every crevice, burning it all into my memory like a brand. 

In my bedroom, we took the fast, less personal way, settling with ripping off our own pants and kicking them to the floor next to us. I was still trying to decide whether I wanted to kiss, or punch him instead. I compromised by pushing him down onto my bed, biting onto his Adam’s Apple just as hard as he had done to my lip. 

A small yelp escaped him, but his hips bucked at the same time, his already stiff cock sliding against the cleft of my ass. I choked out a moan, pressing the nails of my thumb and index finger into the curve of his bare shoulders. 

Before he had the chance to cause me any more physical harm, I stuck three fingers into my mouth, soaking them with saliva before manoeuvring them between his legs. Roughly, I pushed two fingers in past the tight ring of muscle. They went in easier than expected, and the realization struck something hot and ugly inside me that I hadn’t felt for years. 

Growling from the back of his throat, Brendon thrashed his head against the pillow, exposing a long strip of pale skin along his throat. I eagerly bit it, teeth nipping the sensitive skin, lighter this time. 

I spent less time prepping him than I should’ve, my mind blurred with lust and want and need. Impatience was taking over the better part of me, and I could tell Brendon felt the same by the way he was spread out underneath me, hot and writhing, hair stuck to his forehead in sweat. I spit into my palms, all too anxious to feel Brendon around me again to search for proper lubricant. 

He didn’t protest as he hooked his legs tightly around my middle, and I aligned myself, pushing in with one go, breath strangled against his jaw. Brendon rolled his hips up, pushing closer into me, mewling as he did. 

I choked back the noise struggling at the base of my throat, and clutched harder onto his hip, fingernails digging to the bone. Three thrusts in, and I was already wondering how I had managed to go an entire year without this. Without Brendon, hot and tight and fucking amazing around me, underneath me, above me. Everywhere. 

His fingernails scraped along my back, peeling off a thin layer of skin as I pushed in harder. I was in as far as I could go, but I held on tighter, the need to be closer to him thicker than craving inside my veins. 

Reaching down to wrap my hand around him, Brendon’s eyes fluttered shut, cursing underneath his breath. I strained to hear my name, even the beginning of it, sitting on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came. I knew he’d missed this just as much as I had; he had started it after all, hadn’t he? He must’ve known this was coming the moment he pulled into my driveway. This was how it always ended with us, no matter how many times we swore never again. 

Brendon made a small, strangled noise from the back of his throat, something that resembled my name but not quite, when he came, all over my hand and his belly. He thrust back into me, hips lifting off the mattress as he rode out on his orgasm. 

I came not longer after, shooting inside of him, the back of my eyelids pricking with color. It had been a while since I felt an orgasm like that; no drugs or alcohol fogging my sight. I had forgotten what that felt like. 

I pulled out, Brendon lying quiet and boneless against the sheets. Falling onto my back next to him, our shoulders pressed together. I expected him to curl against me, rest his cheek against my chest, comment on my heartbeat like he always had, but it never came. Instead, we lay silent, only our breathing between us. My orgasm barely had a chance to pass me before Brendon was suddenly jumping out of bed, cursing as if waking from a nightmare. 

I watched the pale expanse of his back, the curve of his ass as he bent down to retrieve his jeans that were among the mess carpeting my bedroom floor. Panic was laced heavily with his curses as he slid them on, and I pressed my hand to my forehead, breathing in deep, running over in my mind what had just happened. Again. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” he cried, and I turned my head to look at him, feeling boneless and not all there. I watched as he began to pace around the room, fingers tugging harshly at the ends of his hair. “How the fuck - shit. I am so fucking stupid! Fuck! I mean - What the fuck?!” 

Drawing my lips together, I waited for the punch line. 

“I can’t believe I just let you fuck me without a condom! And god only knows where the hell you’ve been lately. I can’t even - fuck! Why would I - How could - Why would I even let this happen in the first place?! How fucking stupid am I?” He searched the floor, presumably for his shirt until he gave up, realizing it was sitting somewhere on the hallway floor downstairs. 

“Hey, fuck you,” I said, suddenly defensive, sitting up straight. “I don’t have any STI’s!” 

Brendon stopped, and stared at me, eyes narrowed and hands on thin hips. “And do you know that for sure?” he demanded. 

I paused, and lied, “Yes.” 

“When was the last time you got tested?” 

I looked away, lip in between my teeth, guilty. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Brendon snapped, coldly. 

I picked myself off my mattress, snatching my boxers sitting in a pile at the end of my bed. “And what about you?” I hissed, face reddening as I slid them over my feet. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve been all pure and virginal for this past year. It’s bullshit.” 

Brendon sneered, folding his arms across his heaving chest. “I’m not the one that binges out on coke and alcohol and posts it all over the internet like I’m fucking proud to be some washed-up, junkie rockstar.” Brendon’s scowl broke, as if momentarily wishing he could take the words back, but it disappeared after only a moment, the scowl returning, becoming something harsher. 

“Fuck. You,” I hissed, fists clenched at my side as rage slammed through me. I took a step forward, towards him, knuckles turning white as I prepared to punch him once more. 

Brendon rolled his eyes and pushed past me, heading towards the door. 

“So, what?” I demanded as I followed after him, down the hallway and staircase. “You think you’re all fucking high and mighty, and above me now? If you feel that way then why did you come here? It wasn’t just to yell at me, was it? Why did you kiss me in the first place? Don’t try and act like I pinned you down and fucked you without a condom without your consent. Don’t pull your bullshit drama with me, Brendon. You were just as into it as I was.” Face burning with anger, I took a deep breath before continuing, voice cold and demeaning as Brendon picked his shirt up from the ground and slid it over his head. “That’s the problem with you, you always treat me like I’m the scum on the bottom of your shoe and - ” 

“And what do you expect me to do, Ryan?” Brendon yelled, turning to face me, eyes burning with heat. “Just sit there and wait at your beck and call for when you finally decide that you want me? Just like I had done for those five fucking years that I knew you? You left me, Ryan. You treated me like shit for years. I let you use me and hurt for years because I was this stupid, naïve little boy and I actually let myself believe that somewhere in that cold fucking heart of yours that you loved me. And then you left because drugs and your pathetic friends were more important than we were, your fucking family, and I told myself it was over, and that I wasn’t going to let it happen ever again. You were out of my life, and I didn’t give a shit about you anymore. And now look at me, I show up here and I let you toss me around all over again!” 

Clearing my throat, I stared down at the floor, kicking the bench with my foot. Not a word came to mind, and I felt pathetic. I felt like a dick, an asshole, the worse I had years. I’d never meant to treat Brendon like I had, at least I never wanted, and it killed me that he felt that way. That for five years, all I ever did was hurt him. I thought for the most part, it was okay. You pushed the girls aside, and later the drugs, Alex, and we were good. Weren’t we? I thought he knew that I loved him, but I guess I’d been wrong. 

We stood in silence for minutes, dragged on like hours, and when Brendon spoke again his voice had dropped significantly, raw and torn to shreds as he said, “Why can’t you just let me go, Ryan? Why can’t you just stop messing with me and let me live my life? I’m lost in this hold of yours, and it’s so fucking pathetic because no matter how hard I try it’s still always you.” He paused, and I inhaled sharply, something stinging inside my chest. “I’m so sick of always being alone. I’m so sick of waiting for someone that’s never going to come.” 

My whole body was throbbing with heat, and somehow, from the dark expanses of my mind, I managed to get out a small, “Brendon, I - ” but it was stopped short. I didn’t know what I was planning on saying, anyway. I did love you? I still love you? Neither was what he wanted to hear, neither was it what he needed. 

“No. Don’t say anything, okay?” Brendon choked out, all anger now turned to despair. “Just please. I’m begging you, will you just let me go? I can’t sit here anymore, giving myself all this false hope. I can’t sit here and watch you ruin your life anymore. I can’t, Ryan. I can’t. It’s fucking killing me. So, please - just please. Let me go. Let me move on.” 

“I - ” I floundered, throat closing in. Blinking, I took a shaky breath, and said, defeated, “Okay. Okay, yeah.” 

He sniffed, looking in the opposite direction from me as he took a quick swipe underneath his right eye. I couldn’t stand seeing him cry anymore, not because of me. He said, “Alright. Well. I guess that’s it.” Clearing his throat, he headed towards the door, hands in his pocket and head tilted downwards. 

“Yeah…” I bit onto my lip, and attempted to block out all the thoughts forming too rapidly inside my head. 

I thought, please stay. 

I thought, I’ll change. 

“Bye, Ryan.” Brendon looked over me, biting his lip, as if considering going back in time and taking back everything just said. We could pretend none of this ever happened; we could be happy together. For once. 

I swallowed, and lifted my hand for a single, pathetic wave of my hand. “Bye,” I croaked. 

With that, Brendon slipped out the front door, closing it behind him with a resounding snap that echoed in my brain for days afterwards. 

For the next three hours, I curled up in my room, snorting rails off my bedside table until my nose was so raw that I could no longer breath. I couldn’t let myself think about Brendon, driving down the highway with tears streaming down his face, or how he’d show up at Spencer’s where he’d wrap him in a warm hug, just like he had once done to me so many years ago. 

It was then that I closed my eyes, sinking into my covers, tainted with Brendon’s scent and though, what the fuck did I let myself become? 

* 

“You fucked him.” Alex traced his finger over the long, red gash, still fresh and one of many, decorating the pale skin on my back. 

I swallowed and looked away, cheeks burning. It’s not like I hadn’t fucked other people before, and it’s not that Alex ever cared, but this was different. I knew it, and I didn’t have to look into his eyes to see that. 

“How was he?” he asked, voice hissed into my ear. 

I shuddered, and shrugged. 

Alex stayed there for a moment longer, body pressed over mine and cool, sour breath in my ear. His fingers dug into the cut on my back, and I tried not to wince. Finally, he pulled away and slid off the bed, closing the bedroom door shut behind him. 

I closed my eyes, and breathed out through my nose. 

* 

The next week there was a message on my answering machine from Brendon. It said, “You gave me syphilis, you stupid fuck,” before the dial tone cut in. 

I had nothing left to do but laugh, tears sliding down my cheeks. 

 

**fall 2011**

I get in the car, and drive. I don’t know where I’m heading until I’ve been driving for over a half an hour and the streets begin to look all too familiar to me. There’s a vial in the console next to me, filled to the brim with brown liquid. I can practically taste it, my hands shaking against the leather steering wheel. 

It was one thing to try it, but now I’ve bought it. Now it’s all mine, and I can no longer use the excuse that it was only a mistake while drunk at a party. I had called up that kid with the red, frizzy hair, fully aware what I was doing, where exactly this put me on the map. 

I pull over before I get too close, on the side of a quiet street. It’s late, the green numbers on my dash reading six to midnight. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I have heroin to my right, and I’m a block away from Brendon’s. I barely feel like I’m in my own head anymore. 

My hands are shaking as I reach into the console, so much that I can barely take the vial and needle between my fingers. I close my eyes, feeling the needle burn into my skin as I clutch onto it. Red, the dealer, gave me careful instructions on how to prepare it, how much to take. He doesn’t want the chance of a new, prime customer dying his first buy. 

I have enough to do me over, right here. All I have to do is inject just enough, and wait for it to slowly take me over, numbing me until it can’t any longer. It’d be quick, painless. A good way to go. Someone would find me in the morning, cold with a needle sticking out of my arm. I could make the magazines, my last minutes of fame as the washed-up, junkie rockstar. I try to imagine Brendon at my funeral, Spencer and Jon, but can’t. 

In the end, I don’t take enough to kill me, but I take enough. I melt back into my seat, head lulled against the headrest. The rush is instantaneous again, the same numb, warming feeling it had been last night. The same thought is running through my head as the first time I tried cocaine; I know it’s bad, but I can’t understand why, not when I feel like this. 

I wait until I can feel my hands again, my heart jumping from nearly zero to a hundred in a single moment, as I turn my key in the ignition and slide into drive. I wasn’t actually planning on showing up at Brendon’s, but now I feel as if I have no other choice. 

It’s funny that I still know how to get there like back of my hand; that it’s been over a year, and I can barely, barely breathe, but I can pull up at his house like this is where I’ve been meant to be all along. The house is dark, except for a single light on upstairs and a flickering blue light that comes from the living room. 

By the time I reach his doorstep, my heart is beating so rapidly, the drug causing my blood to zip around my veins at an uncontrollable speed. Maybe I had taken too much, after all. I’m barely aware that I’ve pressed the doorbell until it’s Brendon who appears in the doorway, blinding light flooding in from behind him. I try to sink into the wall, wishing it would absorb me. 

He says my name, eyes so wide they nearly take up his entire face, but I can barely hear him over the loud buzzing sounding from somewhere above. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me now. Does he still think I’m perfect? Because I think he is. 

“What, Ryan? What? I can’t hear you - you. You’re mumbling. What?” He’s freaking out, I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way he looks at me. And I know he’s thinking about how much easier it would be to just close the door on me, lock me out, it’s been so easy for everyone else, after all. Instead, he pulls me inside, checking over my shoulder first, as if scared the neighbours will be able to see over his twenty foot hedges. 

“Christ, Ry. What are you doing here? Why - Why - ” He swallows, eyes huge behind his glasses, crooked on his nose. Those glasses, those stupid fucking glasses. “What are you on?” 

I fall back against the wall, knees buckling and heart racing away, in my ribcage, everywhere. This doesn’t feel like it did the first time, this feels like too much. 

“Ryan,” Brendon’s demanding, sharp and hoarse. Everything seems fuzzy and distorted, his face, his voice, the way he looks at me. It’s not supposed to be like this. “Tell me, Ryan, what are you on? Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, but the words feel too foreign on my lips, thick and heavy like tar. “I can’t - it’s all the same. All the same.” 

He pushes his hands through the front of his hair, further knocking his glasses. I’m sinking into the wall, towards the ground, and I struggle to keep myself up. If I fall anymore, I’ll be nothing. I won’t be able to stand again. 

“Do you feel sick? You’re turning white. Shit, Ryan. What the fuck.” He grabs onto my wrist, so frail it nearly breaks under his hold. As if he can feel it too, he suddenly loosens his grip, and pulls me from the wall. I let him. 

He leads me down a black hole and into the washroom, and when he flicks on the light, it’s all too much, too bright and blinding. I sink to my knees in front of the toilet, back against the porcelain tub, and I watch his back as he leaves. He leaves. Of course he does. Everyone always leaves. 

But, then he returns, a cloth in his hand. I can’t understand why there are no doves this time. Where are the doves? The ocean? 

Brendon wets the cloth, and gets down on the floor with me, crawling over my outstretched legs and pushing the freezing fabric into my face without warning. He’s so close that I could touch him. Taste him on my tongue. My fingers brush his leg, and he feels hot, burning at the touch. 

“I didn’t leave,” he says, but I barely hear it. 

I can feel beads of sweat pricking up underneath my skin, like weeds in soil, and the cloth that Brendon pushes so desperately into my face soothes me. Everything in here is too fucking white. Too bright. Too fucking hot. And that buzzing. That goddamn buzzing. How does he live with that? 

“Ryan, stop it. Stop,” he demands, shaking as the cold water soaks into the tips of my scraggly hair. “There’s no buzzing.” 

He drops the cloth onto the tile, now too hot, but he doesn’t move. I keep my eyes closed, feel him against me, warm and everywhere. Why couldn’t I have kept him as my drug? Why couldn’t he have been enough? 

Fingers are at my wrist, fabric pushing up my skin, and I lay their boneless, trying to remember what it’s like to breathe. Brendon makes a choked noise, his fingers on the soft, fleshy part of my arm, where the purples and yellows blend together like an oil painting, tarnished with age. I turn my head, eyes opening in slits, enough to see a single tear, clear as glass, slip down his cheek. 

I reach forward, fingers against his jaw, his tears burning down the tips. “I always hurt you.” 

He shakes his head, soft lip in between his teeth. He’s the one that’s perfect, why couldn’t he ever see that? “Only when you hurt yourself.” 

I close my eyes, head rolling against the hard porcelain. Things are coming and going, focusing and then becoming fuzzy like the contrast on an old television. I don’t know what’s real or not anymore, whether I’m even really here or if this is all a dream. If Brendon’s a dream. Whether I’m thinking, or speaking. Or if this all my dying. My last moments on a bathroom floor while Brendon cries. I always make him cry. 

Brendon slides down onto the tile next to me, taking my cold hand into his, too hot, and my head falls onto his shoulder. He smells like warm summer days and salt and like everything that makes me feel okay.

“What happened to me?” I murmur. His shoulder feels wet. Had I been crying this entire time? 

He says nothing, having no answer himself. Or, maybe he does, Maybe he doesn’t want me to know. Doesn’t me to know that it’s all irreparable. He takes a breath, and into my hair, he says, “You just fell down.” 

Fell down? How easy that would be if it were true. If you fall, there’s always a way to get back up. “Why weren’t you there to help me up?” 

He swallows, so loud, and it soaks into me, reverberating against my cracking bones. “You didn’t want my help,” he replies in a whisper. 

I press my face into his chest, trying to melt into him, my forehead brushing against his skin. The skin I loved so much. Love so much. I sink into him, hand pressing at his belly. “I do now,” I say, so quiet, I don’t even feel it myself. 

His lips brush against my forehead, warm and soft, as I feel a tear splash against my skin, cleaning me. I cling tighter; I won’t let him go this time. I can’t. I need him here. Even though none of this is his responsibility, none of this is his fault, I need him to pick me up. I need him to nurse my wounds, kiss me where it hurts. 

Softly, he says, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

* 

 

When I wake up, I’m still on the bathroom floor. 

The room is dark, except for a single ray of sunlight that trickles in from the blinds, covering me, covering Brendon, like a warm blanket. Hope, it feels like, maybe. 

Brendon stirs from behind me, his hand on my stomach, arm secured around my side, like armour. I rest my hand on his, my fingers slipping through the spaces that hold them so perfectly. 

Against the back of my neck he breathes steadily, his fingers fluttering beneath mine. I can hear birds outside, singing, the crash of the waves against the shore. I feel his heart against my back, listen to his breath, as he says, “I never left.” 

Nose brushing against the beginning notches of my spine, he says, “I’ve always been here.” 

I close my eyes, knot our fingers together. “I know,” I say, and breathe.


End file.
